


Remember Me

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Amnesia, Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Auror Harry Potter, Awkward Romance, Bickering, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Famous Harry, First Kiss, First Time, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry loses his memory, Idiots in Love, Living Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Marriage, Married Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Memory Charm | Obliviate (Harry Potter), Memory Loss, Memory Magic, Misunderstandings, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, Oblivious Harry, Pining Draco Malfoy, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Potioneer Draco Malfoy, Potions, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Romantic Angst, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Snogging, So Married, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:47:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 42,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24243031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Alright. Okay,” Harry begins unsteadily, “Why is he here?”For a moment the three of them, Ron-Hermione-Malfoy. All seem to have a mental conversation on who should take this question.After a brief silence, Draco sighs wearily, “For fucks sake. I’ll tell him. We’re married.”Now it’s Harry’s turn to be dumbfounded. This is a good joke. It is. He waits for George Weasley to burst into the room and yell ‘Surprise!’. He waits for Ron to snort and say ‘Did you see your face?’ But nothing happens. Nobody’s laughing.***After a raid gone awry, Harry loses the last seven years of his memory.
Relationships: Dean Thomas/Ginny Weasley, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 371
Kudos: 1270





	1. Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This

When Harry woke up he thought he was still dreaming. Because why else would he be in a hospital ward with only Malfoy for company?

“You absolute idiot!” Malfoy exclaimed, “What were you thinking going in there alone? After all this time… you still think you're expendable don’t you?”

He was pacing about in front of Harry’s bed, looking angrier and angrier by the second, “Wait...don’t answer that. I know you do. I know. Stubborn bastard.”

Harry pinches himself, hard, hoping to wake up from this weird dream where Malfoy’s yelling at him and he has absolutely no idea how he got here. He doesn’t wake up, and the looming form of Draco Malfoy is still in front of him. Not a dream then. Hmm. 

“Er…” he begins, “Why am I here? And why are  _ you  _ here?” 

Malfoy looks dumbfounded by the question. Harry looks at him, and then it dawns on him that something is off. Last time he saw Malfoy, two months after the war ended, it was at his trial at the Wizengamot. He had looked gaunt, and defeated. All grey skin, and dark, sullen eyes. It’s been six months since then. Malfoy looks different now. Taller, almost. With a healthy glow instead of a pallor. There’s a silver ring on the fourth finger of his left hand. He’s married? When did Malfoy get married? Harry racks his brain. He doesn’t remember that. 

While Harry ponders desperately, Malfoy’s face falls, “You don’t...you…” then he leaves the room, and only returns when a familiar looking witch is by his side. 

She tucks her hair behind her ears and pulls out a clipboard from a bag at her side, “Hello Harry...I’m so pleased to see you in such stable condition. It was quite touch-and-go for a while there. After we found you.” 

Harry looks at her name badge, which reads  _ Senior Healer, Penelope Clearwater _ , he looks at her imploringly, “Could you tell me what’s going on?” 

She makes some notes on her clipboard, and then looks at Malfoy, “You were right. There’s definitely some element of memory loss here. He took so many other hexes that we had bigger priorities at the time. But there were some symptoms of a memory charm in there too. Now that I think about it.”

Harry feels a familiar anger rising, he hates when people hide things from him, especially to protect him. He especially dislikes being talked about when he’s right there. 

“Excuse me, I would really like to know what’s happened to me thanks.” he says, then adding apologetically, “Sorry.”

Penelope looks at him, a bit embarrassed, “Yes. Of course. Could you tell me. Maybe. What’s the last thing you remember?” 

Harry thinks on it a second, “Yeah. I was heading back to Grimmauld place after dinner with Ron and Hermione.” 

He looks up at Malfoy, who has assumed a poker face, and whose eyes are boring holes into Harry’s skull. 

“Right,” Healer Clearwater makes some more notes, “And do you remember the date?” 

“12th of December,” Harry answers quickly. 

“Right…” Healer Clearwater coughs uncomfortably, “And the--uh. The year?”

“1998.” Harry replies. 

Draco’s face has gone white. Whiter than white. Almost transparent. He’s practically shaking. Harry doesn’t understand. Healer Clearwater looks worried, and looks from Harry to Malfoy before speaking. 

“Harry,” she begins, “The thing is. What I want you to understand first is that this is by no means a permanent condition. And that we at St. Mungo’s will do everything in our power to help. Your situation is not unique. Many wizards have experienced years of memory loss and went on to live very productive and happy lives. You could even get your memory back!” 

A coldness and an emptiness wash over Harry, “How many...how many years have I lost then?” 

She falters a bit, but in the end she doesn’t have to answer. Harry looks over at his bedside table at a copy of the Daily Prophet. The big headline:  _ RAID GONE WRONG: BOY WHO LIVED AT DEATH’S DOOR ONCE AGAIN.  _ And the date, Harry’s heart sinks as he reads it, the date is 6/1/2006.

***

A semblance of normalcy finally arrives a few moments later in the form of Ron and Hermione. Hermione is pregnant, as Harry remembers. Ron’s hair has thinned out a bit, but other than that he looks the same as ever. 

Hermione practically barrels into him, jostling the bed, “Oh Harry. We’re sorry we weren’t here ages ago. I had to take Rosie to the burrow and stop Ron from going ballistic and tracking down the utter scum that attacked you five to one. But we’re here now. How are you feeling?” she looks at Malfoy expectantly, “How’s he feeling? Draco?” 

Since when does Hermione call Malfoy ‘Draco’? Harry thinks as he looks over at Ron, to see if he too is as shocked. He’s not. 

“Blimey Harry,” Ron says finally, “Gave us a right fright. You did.” 

In the corner where Hermione and Malfoy are standing he sees them exchange hushed whispers. Hermione’s face goes from shock, to sadness, to shock again. And then settles back on sadness. She throws her arms around Malfoy suddenly, and to Harry’s utter shock, Malfoy allows it. Even giving her a small pat on the back. 

When Hermione looks back to Harry, and then to Ron, there are tears in her eyes, “Ron. Harry doesn’t remember. Harry’s lost the past seven years.” 

Ron’s eyes are wide with shock, then in an instant he’s comforting his wife, “We can get it back right?” 

Ron looks at Harry worriedly, then gulps, “I mean. It’s just. For now. That’s all, right mate?” 

He lets go of Hermione then looks from Malfoy to Harry. Malfoy, who is standing stiff as a board in the corner, and hasn’t said anything in a long, long time. 

Harry for his part, is taking this quite well, he thinks. So...he lost a few years off of his life. He died once. He could get past that. He  _ did  _ get past that, apparently. Besides, he’s very good at compartmentalizing his pain. He’s lost a lot, in his life, and he has to be pretty good at dealing with it. Surely. 

“Yeah,” Harry says good-naturedly, “Er. We’ll. We’ll find. Something.” He tries hard to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach and the fact that it feels sort of difficult to breathe. 

None of them seem to know what to do for a while, and they sort of skirt around the subject for the next hour. Healer Clearwater returns, and rattles on about his other injuries, how well they’ve healed and what he’ll need to take for about the next month to insure no lasting consequences. 

It’s, not surprisingly, Hermione, who points out the elephant in the room after Healer Clearwater leaves again, having cleared him to leave as soon as he feels up to it, “This is going to be difficult, Harry. Let’s start off simple. Why don’t we do sort of a question and answer type of thing? You can ask a question about the past seven years. And the three of us will do our best to answer.”

“Really, Hermione? A question and answer session?” Draco scoffs, “Honestly.” 

Harry hasn’t seen him look this meek and sad since he was a ferret. 

“Alright. Okay,” Harry begins unsteadily, “Why is he here?” 

For a moment the three of them, Ron-Hermione-Malfoy. All seem to have a mental conversation on who should take this question. 

After a brief silence, Draco sighs wearily, “For fucks sake. I’ll tell him. We’re married.” 

Now it’s Harry’s turn to be dumbfounded. This is a good joke. It is. He waits for George Weasley to burst into the room and yell ‘Surprise!’. He waits for Ron to snort and say ‘Did you see your face?’ But nothing happens. Nobody’s laughing. Hermione has tears in her eyes again. Malfoy has taken a seat in the chair at Harry’s side. Burying his face in his hands. 

Harry thinks of a good response to this. Many come to mind. First of all, it’s Malfoy. Second of all, it’s Malfoy. And third, he’s not even gay. He’s pretty sure. Mostly sure. He’s just broken up with Ginny, but that doesn’t mean he’s gay. No. Not even close. 

He always thought Malfoy was somewhat attractive. Because he is. The pale blonde hair. The demeanor. The gaze. The eyes. Impeccable bone structure. But he’s never fancied him. He’s just not blind is all. He thinks a lot of things are attractive. Art is attractive. Good spellwork can be attractive. He’s not shacking up with any of those things, so he couldn’t possibly be shacking up with Malfoy. 

Besides, Malfoy is--or was. A death eater. They were enemies for years before that. It doesn’t make any sense. It doesn’t. 

“No,” Harry says finally, “I don’t buy it.” 

“You great git,” Malfoy says slowly, “It’s not something for you to buy or not to buy. It’s a reality. It’s a fact. Hermione tell him. Before I hex him into oblivion. Or worse. Hex myself into oblivion.” 

“Draco’s right Harry,” Hermione says kindly, “It’s true.” 

She pauses and then reaches into her purse. She pulls out a photograph. In it are Harry and Draco. In Harry’s arms is a red-haired little girl. She’s smiling and grabbing at Harry’s glasses. They’re smiling and wearing really fancy dress drobes. Harry’s is maroon and gold. Draco’s green and silver. They wear matching silver rings. Harry grabs the picture and looks at the ring in the picture, and then down at his own hand. It’s the same. 

“That was taken at the wedding,” Hermione goes on, “It’s one of our favorite photographs of you with Rosie. Isn’t it Ron?” 

“Yeah,” Ron adds, “It was a good day, that. Rosie enjoyed it, nearly destroyed your cake riding on the little broomstick you gave her for Christmas.”

To which Malfoy says, to no one in particular, “Which to you, justified your earlier request to serve our guests individual treacle tarts instead of a proper wedding cake. Much harder to be destroyed by a little Weasley. Idiot.” 

Harry decides to play along for a bit, “Okay. When was this taken?” 

“It’s been about four years mate.” Ron supplies helpfully. 

“Okay,” Harry’s practically functioning on auto-pilot, “And where do I work?”

Harry half expects the answer to be ‘The Shrieking Shack’, or something equally outrageous. Given the other answers he’s been getting.

“Auror office,” Malfoy answers, “You also occasionally guest teach Defense Against the Dark Arts at school. God knows why. Children are horrible. Except Rose.” 

Harry tries to ignore that it’s Malfoy who answered that question. As he’s trying very hard to avoid thinking anything Malfoy-related at the moment. 

He asks a bunch more questions. About what he does as an auror. What the world has been up to. About Ginny. Neville. Luna. Seamus. Dean. He asks about where he lives. Which is 12 Grimmauld Place. He asks about just about everything. Except the one thing that’s been eating at him since the beginning. Why the hell is he married to Draco Malfoy? Was he imperioused? Is this some sort of trick? 

For years, Harry has been unable to shake the notion that everything Draco Malfoy-related is intended to be some sort of huge trick. Intended to make him, Harry, be utterly and completely humiliated. He can’t have entered into a marriage with Malfoy without some sort of catch. After all, Malfoy couldn’t--doesn’t love Harry. He doesn’t even like him. 

Eventually, he realises it’s getting late. Malfoy turns to him defeatedly, “Are you coming home or what? You’ve been released into my care.” 

“No,” Harry snaps, “No. I am not. Not until I know exactly what’s going on.” 

Malfoy sighs again, and to Harry’s surprise, doesn’t argue, “Can you take him?” he looks up at Ron and Hermione. 

“Yeah, ‘course,” Ron says, “We’ll drop him back at yours in the morning.” 

Draco nods and walks a few steps away. Before going, he turns back and looks at Harry. A deep, searching look. As if he’s looking for something. Then turns haughtily and leaves for good. 

“If I’m honest,” Ron says, “He’s taking that better than I thought he would. I thought he would be kicking and screaming, demanding Harry go with him.” 

“He’s tired. It’s a lot to deal with. I should know. I never tried to push Mum and Dad before they were ready. It’s a delicate thing. I think he knows that.” Hermione replies.

Harry’s annoyed. They’re doing that thing again where they’re talking about something that involves him without including him in the discussion at all. 

“Oi!” he says, “Now that he’s gone. Can you finally tell me what this is all about?” 

“Let’s go back to our flat first,” Hermione says, “Then we’ll fill you in.”

***

The last time he was here, Harry notes, the paint was peeling and the kitchen tiles were old and mildewy. Everything is brand new now. It’s been done up well and been cleaned and polished to perfection. There’s a burrow-style clock on the wall, with three hands, growing a fourth. The nursery looks much the same, although a different baby will live here now than the one he was expecting. There’s a child’s bedroom across the hall. And Harry suddenly feels cheated, angry, that he doesn’t remember his goddaughter. 

They sit at the kitchen table and Hermione makes tea. 

“What’s with this...this me and Malfoy thing?” Harry asks, “How...I mean. Why...I mean...Er…”

“I think you bumped into him in Diagon Alley one day. And then just kept bumping into him. Until you started bumping into each other on purpose.” Hermione starts.

“Then one day you brought him round to the flat to see Rosie,” Hermione continues, “She had just started teething. By then it was official. You didn’t really tell us. In words. But we knew.” 

“We were really happy for you too, mate.” Ron adds, “Weirded me out at first. Still does a little. But he’s growing on me.” 

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, “Are you mad? This is the same person that made our lives a living hell at school. Called you a mud-blood and every possible opportunity. And you a blood-traitor. And he’s...he’s ‘growing’ on you.”

“He’s changed,” Hermione says thoughtfully, “We all did. After the war. But especially him. I tried to get rid of his dark mark for weeks when he asked me to do some research about it. He’s picked up Rosie from my parents place. In muggle London. When I asked him too. He’s not the person you’re thinking of.” 

The thought of Malfoy in muggle London is briefly terribly amusing, but Harry pushes on, “Alright. So let’s say he’s reformed. What about. What about…”

“Yes?” Hermione asks. 

“I don’t like blokes!” Harry exclaims. 

Ron turns beet red, “To be fair Harry, you don’t really talk to us much--or at all--about how you and Malfoy. Or if you and Malfoy even do. Hermione, help me here.” 

“You never came out to us directly,” Hermione says, “But. I think you’ve always. You know. Noticed. Boys. And when we saw that you were with Malfoy. You seemed very happy. With your relationship. Even. The--um. Physical. Aspect.”

Harry flushes, “I. Have. Not. Had. Sex. With Draco Malfoy.” 

“That’s how I like to think of it, mate” Ron says. Hermione elbows him. 

“It’s not really our place to say Harry,” Hermione is biting back a laugh, “Look. You’re family. You can stay here as long as you like. But I know memory charms. I know how hard it is to reverse them. You’ve got to sink back into your regular routine as soon as possible if you want a shot at getting those memories back.” 

“I’m not living with him,” Harry shoots back, “I can’t. He hates me.”

“Think of it this way mate,” Ron says, “The day Rosie was born you were the third person to hold her. And I have four brothers and a sister. You were there with us. When she took her first steps. When Hermione got pregnant again, you were the first person we told. Think of when the two of us graduated from auror training. When we saw Ginny’s first professional Quidditch match. When George re-opened Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. When Hermione became a department head. Youngest ever. You were there. Do you really not want to get those memories back?” 

Harry gulped. He did. He really did. 


	2. Who knew your own home could be a Chamber of Secrets?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry returns home.

But it isn’t that easy. Hermione sends Malfoy an owl saying Harry needs some more time. Malfoy’s reply is quiet acquiescence. 

Hermione spends her days with Rose at the burrow. Telling her daughter simply that Uncle Harry isn’t feeling very well. She doesn’t know how to bring Rose and Harry together without ‘Uncle Draco’, and Harry’s saddened but partly relieved that he doesn’t have to face the little girl just yet and not remember anything. 

Ron spends his days with Harry in the London flat, explaining to him everything that’s happened in the years that have gone by. Well, almost everything, Harry refuses to talk about Malfoy. He can’t talk about Malfoy. He doesn’t understand it. What they supposedly have. It actually hurts him, not knowing. Keeps him up at night. And he’s totally lost with respect to just about everything else in his life. 

Hermione stops by at night, after putting Rose to sleep, and they talk some more. He finds it a bit easier with her, and almost broaches the subject about Malfoy, but he can’t bring himself to. 

“It hurt a lot when my parents didn’t remember me.” Hermione says one night, about two weeks after the accident. 

“I never really got over it,” she continues, “Even after... There were still gaps in their memories. And it wasn’t the same. It never will be. But I never stop trying. I don’t think I ever will. They’re my parents, after all. And it took a while for them, but I am their daughter.” 

Harry squeezes her hand, and feels so sorry that she had to go through this for him. But he feels like this isn’t entirely about her parents. 

Obviously, it’s about him and his situation as well, “You--You think I should go to him?” 

“It’s your best chance to find yourself again,” she says simply, “You tell me.”

***

After breakfast the next morning, Hermione side-along apparates Harry to Grimmauld Place. Ron leaves for work at the ministry, telling Harry he will ease him back into work in a few weeks. After he’s acclimated to everything else. 

Harry has a pit in his stomach. His heart is racing. 

“Is Kreacher still around, then?” he asks.

“Yes,” Hermione says, practically dragging him up the steps onto the stoop, “He is.”

It’s Kreacher who answers the door with an excited, “Master Harry!” 

Hermione gives him a kiss on the cheek, “This is where I leave you. Owl if you need anything. Or send a patronus if it’s urgent. I gave Draco a list of your potions and how often you should take them. So he should know what to do. And stop by as often as you can. So will I.”

Harry smiles weakly, he’s thankful for her. And Ron. Even though it feels like his life is falling apart, “I know, Hermione. Off with you.” 

He steps into the house. Not sure what to expect. It looks, surprisingly, the same. It’s comforting. It feels more lived in though, than what he remembers. 

“Master Draco is taking his tea in the drawing room. On the emerald sofa to which he is so partial.” Kreacher says. 

It takes Harry all the courage he has to walk into the drawing room and face Malfoy. It might have even been easier when he was walking through the woods to face Voldemort himself. 

Malfoy is sitting on the emerald sofa, drinking tea just as Kreacher had said. What Kreacher had failed to mention was that he was wearing a long silken dressing gown. With pyjamas underneath. Harry blinks stupidly. He’s never seen him like this. This feels private. Then his eyes go to Malfoy’s face. Malfoy’s eyes are red, and a bit swollen. 

Malfoy looks up at him, “Took you long enough. Did you lose your way?” 

“No. No, I didn’t lose my way! I remember where I live perfectly fine!” Harry says, sinking into the sofa opposite him, “So.” 

“So.” Malfoy repeats back.

“We...live here. Together. And Hermione and Ron. They’re your friends. Now. Because they were my friends. Before we. You know. And we...we live. Here.” Harry stutters.

“That’s the basic concept, yes.” Malfoy says. 

“Neat,” Harry says bravely, “Hermione says that in order to get my memory back. I should resume more or less my normal routine.” 

“Ah,” Malfoy puts down his tea cup, “That’s why you came back.” He seems hurt, which seems unfair, Harry’s the one who doesn’t remember anything. If anyone has the right to be hurt, it’s him.

This is awkward. Harry thinks. He wishes he were in a room far, far away. Making no noise and pretending he didn’t exist. 

“So. What do you...usually do. Do you work? Somewhere?” Harry asks. 

Malfoy rolls his eyes, “Of course I work. Do you think I spend all day here, just waiting for you to come home broken up and bloody from your latest raid. Waiting to patch you up. Your little wife. Please.” 

“As if I could even consider you waiting here to patch me up...” Harry says back and then snaps the first thing that comes to his mind, “That would require you having a shred of consideration for me in the first place. Which you never have.” 

Malfoy looks as though Harry has stabbed him, but continues anyway, “I work as a potioneer. I specialise in Veritaserum. I supply it for your department actually. Whenever your usual brutish interrogation tactics don’t work and you have to use a more nuanced approach to get information.” 

“That’s impressive. That’s really hard to brew.” Harry says without thinking.

He thinks he sees Malfoy’s mouth twitch a bit, “Thanks for the glowing commendation, Harry.” 

_Harry_ . He said. _Harry._ Harry’s heart almost stops. 

“Malfoy, what did you just call me?” Harry asks quietly. 

“Your name. It’s a little thing we human beings like to call each other so we can distinguish each other from others of the species.” Malfoy says. 

“Malfoy we never called each other...It was always surnames only. I mean in school--” Harry begins. 

“It’s not like we could continue that.” Malfoy says as if there’s something very obvious, “That would just get confusing.”

“Why...why would it be confusing?” Harry is perturbed. 

“Oh!” Malfoy gets up and looks around the room, finally he selects a blue vase and sends an exploding hex so loud Harry’s eardrums ring, “Great salazar’s ghost...” 

The next instant he’s calm again and he’s vanished the pieces of the vase into non-being. He’s sat back down with a huff.

“You don’t even know your name,” he’s laughing bitterly, “Typical. Fucking typical. What did I expect...for this to last forever…”

“Of course I know my own name,” Harry says, “I’m not an idiot.” 

“Okay,” Malfoy leans forward, and takes Harry’s hands in his own--which is very weird, he then widens his eyes, and speaks very, very slowly, “I’ll give you a hint. I’ll tell you _my_ name. My name is Draco Malfoy-Potter.” 

Malfoy’s hands are softer than he expected, and he feels oddly comforted at the contact, “I didn’t expect you to take my name.”

Malfoy let’s go of Harry’s hands, “I didn’t want to, at first. Malfoy is the superior name. And the superior house. Obviously. Your family name is famous for hair potions. But you’re stubborn. And you always get your way.” 

“Me?” Harry is incredulous, “I always get my way?” 

“You do with me,” Malfoy says, blushing, then quickly continues, “With the ministry. Your legions of admirers.” 

“I’m sorry,” Harry points out, “I didn’t realise I was getting my way when the ministry portrayed me as some crazy kid who invented Voldemort’s return to get more attention. Thanks for letting me know.” 

Malfoy waves his hand, “Ancient history, Ha--Potter.”

They sit there together for a while. Not talking. Then Malfoy gets up and motions for Harry to follow him. 

As they’re going up the stairs Malfoy announces, “I suppose I should tell you what your routine actually is. Since for Herm--Granger’s sake you’re going to be following it to the letter.”

This is the part Harry has been dreading. He needs to know. He has to know if they have a bedroom. If they’re together--like that. Like a couple. And not just as--whatever this is. He looks around for pieces of domesticity, as if he’s surveying a scene for evidence. The stairwell, predictably, is devoid of this. 

“We sleep in the third bedroom down the hall.” Malfoy says, “But I took the liberty last night of making up the fourth, just until we sort this out. I didn’t expect you to want to kip in with me.” 

That was considerate, Harry realises with jolt. Malfoy never reached for him, or touched him, other than when he grabbed his hands earlier. Unless they don’t have that sort of relationship? Where they touch. Regardless, he’s giving him the space to figure this--whatever it is--out. And that’s a relief he wasn’t expecting. 

“Thank you, er--for all this” Harry says (putting the knowledge that he and Malfoy apparently share a bedroom to be looked into at a later time), and he means it, “You know you don’t have to do that by the way. I mean not the separate bedroom part. That part’s good. Fine. Great, even. I mean the switching back to calling us all the way you used to. You can keep doing what’s normal.”

“Benevolent of you,” Malfoy says bitterly, but there’s a bit more of a sparkle in his eyes than before. 

“What else is part of my routine?” Harry asks. 

“You generally spend a lot of time in our bedroom reading Witch Weekly. Then you sign autographs for an hour and a half. Have your food brought up to you on a silver platter by Kreacher or myself--if I’m available,” Malfoy smirks wickedly, “Occasionally you can be persuaded to bathe yourself. And sometimes--if especially bored--you use the pensieve on the ground floor to relive all your moments of glory.” 

“Compared to that load of bull,” Harry scoffs, “The idea that we’re married is fucking believable. Thanks for that.” 

“I aim to please.” Malfoy says disappearing into the third bedroom and closing the door, “You will have to do without me for today though. I’m going to work. There’s a box of vials on the kitchen table and a timetable for when you should take them. I used big letters since you’re sort of slow on the uptake. Even more so these days.”

“I ask again” Harry shouts from outside the door, “Why in Merlin’s name would I marry you when you’re such a giant fucking prick?!”

He hears the sound of Malfoy dressing from beyond the door--the swish of robes, “I think the last three words of your question will tell you everything you should know, Harry.” 

Harry’s face burns when he realises what Malfoy means. Then he hurriedly enters the fourth bedroom and slams the door shut. He hates him, he decides. He hates Draco Malfoy. He’s infuriating. He wants to wipe that smirk off his face at all costs. But weirdly, that makes him feel better. Being infuriated by Draco Malfoy seems more normal than just about any feeling he’s encountered in the last few weeks. 

Maybe something about this actually makes sense.


	3. The Silver Snitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry snoops around the house while Draco is out, discovering what their domestic life together has been.

Malfoy doesn’t return for hours. Harry has plenty of time to snoop around. 

He starts downstairs in the drawing room they were just talking in. Starts noticing the things that are different. There are several photographs on the mantelpiece that weren’t there before. And he starts his inspection with those.

There’s a stern portrait of Lucius, Narcissa and a young Draco--grinning smarmily--on the left. And on the other side of the mantelpiece, Harry notes with a surge of joy, there’s a photograph of his mum, dad, and him as a baby. 

Towards the middle left, there’s a photograph of a group of slytherins. Harry recognizes Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson, Crabbe and Goyle. They’re smiling on the Hogwarts grounds. It was taken before the war, surely, Harry thinks, much before. 

On the middle right, there’s it’s exact mirror image--a group of Gryffindors. Him, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Neville. Then in the center, right above the crackling fire, is the picture Harry is most shocked to see. He shouldn’t be of course, because he’s already seen a photograph from their wedding--which should rightfully be more shocking. But he’s Harry, and he damn well hasn’t internalised seeing that one yet either. He doesn’t internalise things until he’s good and ready. 

Photo-Harry has his arms around Malfoy, and he’s beaming. Giddy even. They're at a Quidditch match. Harry can tell from the blur of colours and mess of people in the background. Harpies vs. Puddlemere Utd. It's obscene how happy he looks in the photograph. Harry looks away. 

There are more surprises in the kitchen. Malfoy-and-Harry keep the pantry much more organized than Harry ever did. All the ingredients are neatly labelled in Malfoy's elegant scrawl which Harry recognizes from school. 

When he opens the cabinets he finds gleaming (real silver?) cutlery and decorative fine china. Which Harry most definitely did not own before. Malfoy-and-Harry are about ten times more posh than Harry himself, he notes. This, at least, is not surprising. 

He peers in each of the bathrooms and they smell strongly of wood, pine, and another scent that reminds him of Malfoy manor. 

One of the rooms off the first floor has been cleverly transfigured into a greenhouse. Letting in the light from the street. Malfoy--or Harry--has carefully planted rows of red and white roses. And lilies. There are many, many colours of lilies. It takes Harry's breath away, how beautiful this room is. He stops there a while. Just feeling the petals and avoiding the thorns. 

Going back upstairs, Harry notes that the carpet on the stairs has changed. It's velvety and soft, and cushions his steps so that they're soundless. 

Sirius' room is unchanged. Harry stops to sit on his godfather's bed and wonders what he would say to him about all of this. Wonders if in the time he's lost, the raw wound of losing Sirius had started to heal. When he leaves Sirius' he goes directly to the bedroom he had been sleeping in. Right where he started.

This guest bedroom Malfoy has tidied up for him seems to have nothing of note. But then he notices a small glass vial on the bedside filled to the brim with blue liquid. It comes with a note. 

_ For your nightmares. --D _

Harry wasn't aware he took a potion for nightmares. He's touched at the gesture, but then the memory of Malfoy mocking him incessantly during third year about the dementors quickly silences the feeling.

The room next to this one is Malfoy's bedroom.  _ Their  _ bedroom, Harry remembers awkwardly. He's not quite ready to go in there yet. So he skips it. 

Past that there's a room with a telescope and heaps and heaps of star charts. The ceiling has been enchanted to show the sky directly rather than the roof above. Harry wonders which one of them is interested in astronomy. 

The room past that is locked. As is the one after that. Harry can only open a door when he goes to the other side of the staircase he just went up. And finds a library. 

There was a library here before. But it had been badly pillaged by Mundungus Fletcher before Harry ever had the chance to properly live here. That's not the case now. Every wall is lined with books, floor to ceiling. Harry wonders how many are originally from Malfoy Manor, and which ones he purchased himself. 

There's an oval desk in the center of the room. And there are six books open and about four more stacked to the side.

There's parchment everywhere covered with Malfoy's handwriting. Harry looks at the titles of the books. 

_ Advanced Memory Charms _

_ Obliviate: A Spellwrite's Guide _

_ The Pensieve _

_ Beyond the Remembrall: How to bring your memory back _

Harry's stomach does an excited little backflip. He's been trying to help me, he realises. Then he recognizes a bit of Hermione's handwriting on the parchment. She's been here too? Without telling him she was? Things really are different, he supposes, suppressing a small string of betrayal. She meant well, after all. She always does.

The room past that has a sign on the door, the only one that does besides the one that belonged to Regulus. This one says "Rosie". 

There's a small bed in the center of the room. The sheets are covered with little golden snitches. There's a basket of toys in the corner. Practically overflowing, and it brings a smile to Harry's face as he sits down beside it. He never had such toys. He's glad Rosie can. 

He picks up a stuffed white snake with a silvery sheen that winds along his arm when he strokes it. There's a little clay peacock that prances about elegantly on the floor when you place it--quickly disappearing under the bed. There is a small box containing a real-looking silver snitch that moves (quite slowly) hither thither when let loose. And Harry has a fun few minutes letting it go and catching it again. Near the bottom of the box there a bunch of old-looking toy soldiers. He recognizes them, and raises his eyebrows, picking them up and inspecting them closely. They're the same ones from the cupboard under the stairs. They're Harry's old toys. Which means the rest of these things are…

"Really Harry, have you been in here with my old playthings all day?" Malfoy asks smugly from the door. 

"How often does Rosie stay with us?" Harry asks innocently, not rising to the bait. 

"Oh, I suppose once every month or so." Malfoy answers, folding his arms, "Had a good day did you? Catching a child's snitch a hundred times."

Harry's stomach grumbles, "I took all the medicine at the right times. Thanks for that. It was all there. But I haven't eaten since you left. And, for your information. I haven't been here all that long. Catching your snitch."

Malfoy perks up a bit at that, "It  _ is  _ mine. Did you remember that?"

"No," Harry says (apologetically?), "Was just. Sort of obvious."

"Isn't it? The quality alone...Was a gift from my father when I was one. He sends his love by the way. He always thought one of us forgetting about the last seven years would do a world of good." Malfoy says with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, "Come on, dinner's waiting."

***

The dinner, as Kreacher's dinners typically are--is delicious. And Harry wolfs it down in characteristic fashion. 

"Haven't forgotten how much you like Kreacher's cooking have you? It's as if you haven't eaten in a week. Were the Weasleys starving you? Is Hermione making the family fast for fair meat conjuring practices?" Draco says from across the table. 

Harry swallows, "Haven't forgotten how much of a pompous arse you can be, either." 

"Well, that's a start" Malfoy cuts into his meat primly. 

"How was your day?" Harry asks. 

"Just  _ incredulous _ ," Draco says after draining his glass, "My husband doesn't remember me. My trainees can't remember their own names. My husband didn't remember his own name this morning either, in fact. It's the dream, Harry."

Harry is briefly rendered speechless by Malfoy calling him his husband twice in such quick succession. His heart does that thing again where it wants to burst out of his chest and fly to the moon. Fucking Malfoy. It must be the shock, of course, Harry thinks. He's still just, so shocked. 

"I'm sorry your life is shit because of this." Harry says finally, he means it. No matter how weird this is for him. It isn't his intention for this to be in any way hurtful, "If it helps, mine is too."

"You know how I love it when you suffer, Harry." Malfoy says, with a completely straight face. 

"I  _ do  _ remember that." Harry retorts, "We've done a lot of remodelling, eh?"

"Yes. I take it you've found your little astronomy alcove. Wasteful hobby in my opinion. The better-kept cousin of divination. And now that it's freshly re-discovered I suppose you'll hole yourself up in it and I won't see you till Christmas."

Harry shakes his head, "I don't remember having any interest, whatsoever in astronomy. I can't imagine why I would."

Draco actually laughs, a slight chortle at first, then a warm, entirely enchanting laugh that Harry has never heard before, "Oh Harry...there's the silver lining I've been looking for."


	4. Do I love how much I hate you or the other way around?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco shows Harry the two locked rooms.

The next day, and the next three days after that, Malfoy leaves before Harry wakes and comes home after Harry falls asleep. 

There are notes on his bedside table, that Harry supposes were slipped in quietly by Malfoy himself. Or by magic. 

_Crisis at work. Toes at stake (not mine). Don't wait up. --D_

_The potion prevents nightmares actively, and isn't meant to be taken to be soothed after one happens. Thought that was obvious. I can hear your moaning from our room. --D_

_Tell Kreacher to take a day off. I promised Hermione but I don't want to be the one who has to do it. --D_

_New, more potent formula demanded at work. Staying late. Everyone's a critic. --D_

_I borrowed some of your clothes to wear while brewing Exploding Rage Supplements. Couldn't risk mine. You understand. --D_

At night Harry lays awake in bed, considering every time that in the next room sleeps Draco Malfoy. He's seen him sleeping in that bed, probably. _Probably more than that_ , an unhelpful voice in Harry's head suggests. And he considers his situation over and over again. 

Was he in love with Malfoy before? Or had they married out of convenience? To provide Malfoy with a stable situation away from the dark cloud of being a former death eater. To provide Harry with the freedom to be left alone by the myriad female fans who claimed to be in love with him. Freedom from how lonely it felt seeing everyone else from his year all neatly paired up, everyone except him. 

He can't imagine Malfoy loving him. Love with Ginny had been familial and warm. Golden and red. Long lengs and curves. Malfoy is nothing like that. Is he? Malfoy has long legs too, Harry supposes. But he can't imagine Malfoy being warm and open for him. Even for a second. Every time Malfoy opens his mouth it's to try and get a rise out of Harry. What would he be like as a lover...pliant and submissive? Or just as intense and biting as he always was. Gentle, languid kisses in bed...or ravenous, hungry snogging up against the wall?

He thinks of himself and Ginny sitting on the grass. In those simpler times. Her fierce, blazing look when they argue about something. How all of a sudden they were kissing intensely. He thinks of red hair. And soft lips. His hands at her waist. But the image blurs in his mind. He suddenly feels warm all over. And the hair is white blonde and silky instead of red. He can imagine a tall man, mouth agape, blonde hair disheveled as Harry kisses him. Again. And again. 

For a second he lets himself relish the thought of Malfoy. Alternately pliant and forceful in Harry's arms. He feels his cock harden. And then he stops himself. What is he doing? Thinking of Malfoy? How did Ginny turn into Malfoy? Why is this happening to him? What does he want?

***

The first time he sees Malfoy after that is breakfast the next day.

"I'm off today," Malfoy says as he strides into the kitchen, "Thought I'd show you around."

"I've been through the house, Malfoy," Harry says. 

"I locked my home office. And yours. I want to show them to you. And you doubtless didn't understand a lot of the things you saw."

"What the hell, Malfoy," Harry says, "Show me what you've got."

They traipse upstairs quickly after they finish up. And enter what Malfoy announces as his own office first. 

"Now just so we're clear, you're not really allowed in here. Not after the duplicating cauldron fiasco of '03." Malfoy clarifies.

There are indeed several identical cauldrons in the room, Harry notes, and wonders if the duplicating cauldron fiasco of '03 is to blame. 

There's a cabinet in the back stocked with ingredients, and a blackboard on the opposite wall where Malfoy has scribbled proportions of ingredients. And some instructions for potions Harry doesn't recognize. 

"Er-Why do you need to brew things at home?" Harry wonders aloud, "Don't you have much better stock at work?"

"Can't brew personal-use potions on company time." Malfoy says in a superior tone. 

"What kind of stuff do you brew...for _personal use_?" Harry asks. 

"Sex supplements for us mostly. To increase your stamina. Lower my refractory period. Give us both the ability to feel the other's sensations." Malfoy says casually. 

"You're joking." Harry says quickly, his face turning beet red. 

"You're intrigued." Malfoy points out. 

"Plus the nightmare potion." Harry changes the subject, "You make that here too. For me."

"Gold star for you, Harry." Malfoy closes the door with a swish of his wand. 

Harry enters his own office first. It's only fair. There's another desk here, Harry-and-Malfoy are apparently, very vehemently, the sit-at-a-desk sort of people. 

Malfoy enters after him and points to a chest of drawers, using his wand to pull out each drawer in turn, "From the top. Your correspondence. Your active case files. Selected cold case files. Your unfinished novel. And spare quills and ink. You'll notice its not as neatly kept as mine. But then--I'm not typically allowed in. So you'll have your past self to thank for it as you muddle through."

"I'm not really on speaking terms with my past self at the moment," Harry looks pointedly at Malfoy, "If he ever drank anything you claim to have brewed in your office that is."

"We have an owl, too by the way," Malfoy ignores the comment, "Barn owl. Named Gliese." 

"I was expecting something more ostentatious, like Vesuvius or Aurelius." Harry responds. 

"That's to be expected, given the last person you shagged before me named their owl _Pigwidgeon_." Malfoy smirks, "Thankfully you moved up in the world."

Hearing Malfoy mention Ginny touches a raw nerve. For Harry, it hasn't been that long. And it's okay if he thinks about her. Or talks about her. But he can't think about her like that. As Harry's ex. It hurts. 

He needs to come up with a smart retort. One that will firmly put Malfoy in his place. But instead, he says, "What did the other people you've shagged name their owls then? Was probably even more pathetic."

"I'm not dignifying that with an answer." Malfoy says, "Come to the garden."

Harry follows him. When they're in the greenhouse, Malfoy turns to Harry, purposefully imitating their first exchange in the drawing room, "So."

"So what?" Harry asks, "We plant things. It's nice."

"Did you find it?" Malfoy asks, "Obviously not. If you knew the trick you would say so."

"What trick?" Harry asks. 

"We keep the pensieve in here. The invisibility cloak as well. If you can find them." Malfoy supplies.

"I suppose the Sword of Gryffindor is in here too. Sticking out of a potted plant. Maybe one of the ferns is wearing the Sorting Hat."

"Don't be facetious. And I won't confirm or deny either of those things." Malfoy replies. 

"Unbelievable," Harry exclaims, "After all that. You're not going to tell me the trick? Where are they? How do you fit a great honking pensieve in here without it sticking out?"

"How should I know _how_ it works. You designed it. I know how to reveal it of course. But telling _you_? Where's the fun in that?" Malfoy sniggers. 

"You're horrible." Harry snaps, "Is that it then? Done for the tour today?" 

"Obviously, Harry. I assume you want to go through the files in your office. So by the time you go back to work you can tell your head from your arse. I'd say it's a waste of time. But it's worth a go at it just to feel like you tried." Malfoy says, smirking again. 

"Funny, that's exactly how I feel about conversations with you." Harry's voice rises. 

"And they say romance is dead," Malfoy scoffs mockingly, "Don't wait up. I'm getting dinner with Pans."

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gliese is a red dwarf star in the constellation Draco.


	5. Draco is an ice-cream headache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They head to Diagon Alley. And Draco knows way too much.

Regrettably, Malfoy is right about the state of his office. The files are organized, Harry suspects, from most to least interesting, based on criteria Harry no longer remembers. The parchment itself is littered with abbreviations Harry can’t figure out from context. Within a few moments he manages to trigger a protective-jinx he himself must have put on some high-security files, and screams as his fingers start burning. 

The counter-jinx. What is the counter-jinx? Harry racks his brain. But he can’t remember. As an auror he probably learnt countless new spells and their counter-spells that he didn’t know at Hogwarts. This is bad, this is very, very bad, he thinks as the spell inches to his wrist. Then to his forearms. 

It’s Malfoy who bursts in and saves him. Grabbing Harry hard by the shoulder and dragging him to the potions office, dousing his hands roughly in some rough green goo in the cauldron at the far back. It instantly cools the burning sensation, and Harry lets out a sigh of relief. 

“Er--Thanks for that. And. What exactly is this stuff?” Harry asks, as his fingers turn from red back to their usual colour. 

“Draught of Demovere, removes all traces of lower to mid-tier jinxes and curses from the body. I like to keep a batch on hand. It’s a good catch-all solution for when you get in over your head. Which is often. Do you know...I once had to bathe you in it.” Malfoy says. 

“That’s disgusting,” 

“Quite.” Malfoy answers, “I take it re-acquainting yourself with the files is going poorly.”

“Yeah. Yeah. You could say that.” Harry looks at him scathingly, “Is there like a list or something. Of auror-level spells.”

“You already know more spells than you give yourself credit,” Malfoy rolls his eyes, “The ones you don’t remember, you probably invented.” 

“I invent spells?” Harry asks.

“Yes. That’s what I just said.” Malfoy snaps, “Pay attention.”

“Do I write them down anywhere?” He says hopefully. 

“Of course you do. You have a grimy little spellbook of your own stuff. You hide it from me though. It’s a sensitive subject, home-made spells. Given you nearly killed me with one sixth year.” Malfoy is laughing, “Serves you right, anyway. Now you can’t get them back.” 

“Why is everything so fucking difficult?” Harry yells, flinging the goo out of his hands. 

“Stop that,” Malfoy says with a softness that rattles Harry to his core, “I won’t have you melting into a puddle of self-loathing on my watch. It’s pitiful. Look. If it means that much to you, we can look for your spellbook later.” 

“Alright.” Harry says, his rage subsiding. 

“Now,” Malfoy says brusquely as he leaves, “Like I said before, I’m off. Try not to injure yourself too badly while I’m gone. Think you can manage that?”

Harry takes too long to come up with a good retort, and by then the door has slammed and Malfoy is already gone. 

***

The next day over breakfast Malfoy makes another announcement, which is becoming their new norm, “I’m off today as well. We’re going to Diagon Alley.”

“I’m sorry. Was that supposed to be a question? Or did you just intend to drag me there whether I want to go or not?” Harry says stubbornly. 

Malfoy nods, “Good that you’re finally catching on.”

“And why do you keep taking days off?” Harry says indignantly, “Don’t stop working on my account.” 

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Malfoy snaps, “It’s humongous as it is. I always have Saturday off. Besides, remember, “in sickness and in health”, “till death do us part”. That load of crap.” 

“Why Diagon Alley?” Harry asks, even though he already knows. 

“That’s roughly where your memory ends.” Malfoy says, what he doesn’t say, and what Harry knows he means, is  _ you idiot, that’s where we met.  _

Harry says it for him, “That’s where we met. At Madam Malkins.”

Malfoy waves his hand dismissively, “That was the first time. I meant the second. After the war. The important one.”

“I can’t possibly go with you. I’m meeting up with Ron and Hermione today.” 

“It won’t take all day, you absolute nutter.” Malfoy says, “You can see them afterward. Besides, I was invited.”

“You--you were what?” Harry almost chokes on his toast.

“Must have slipped my mind. We’re re-introducing you to Rosie today. I was supposed to tell you. Anyway, just make sure while we’re there. You don’t throw any fits or anything.”

“That’s rich,” Harry says, “You’re telling  _ me  _ to behave myself. I’m her godfather. I should be telling you to behave yourself. Don’t go around spouting about blood purity and the glory of Slytherin.” 

“I don’t have to. She wants to be in Slytherin. I  _ am _ her favorite uncle.” Malfoy says smugly, “Don’t take it personally.”

“No. No way. Anyway. We’ll see when we get there won’t we?” Harry clears his plate with a quick vanishing spell, “No child of Ron’s would want to be in Slytherin. You’re lying.” 

“You wound me,” Malfoy says mockingly, “I would never lie to my beloved.”

***

A few minutes later they’re standing in the drawing room. Malfoy grabs Harry’s hand, and with a pop, they apparate to Diagon Alley. It’s raining softly, and there’s a soft fog in the air. Malfoy takes a little too long to drop Harry’s hand. 

“Where did I meet you then?” Harry asks as they walk, “The second time I mean.”

“Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor.” Malfoy says. 

“I didn’t know you like ice cream.” 

“I don’t. Not especially. I was working there.” Malfoy admits. 

“You were working at an ice cream parlor?” Harry is incredulous, “Why in Merlin’s name would you do that?”

“I didn’t want to!” Malfoy says, “It was a condition of my rehabilitation as a former death eater. I had to get hired at a place where I could do wandless labour. Limited options. Fortescue was killed in the war by my side, it’s a miracle his niece snapped me up.” 

“You were scooping ice cream and serving it by hand...for how long?” Harry laughs. 

“Long enough.” Malfoy says, as they approach the place, pointing out a table, “You started to come here to study. I think you enjoyed watching me suffer everyday. Giving ice cream cones to spoiled little children.” 

“You were a spoiled little child,” Harry points out, “So what. Did you come over after your shift to chat me up?” 

“Oh please. Nothing of the sort.” 

“Then what?” Harry demands, “How did it happen?” 

Malfoy ignores him, “Let’s order. Maybe it’ll come to you.”

He goes to the counter, where the woman serving ice cream seems to recognize him. When he returns he has a cone for Harry and one for himself. 

“This really happened?” Harry asks, taking a lick, it’s strawberry, sweet but not too sweet. 

“Many, many times,” Malfoy says, licking his cone suggestively. 

“How did you know what my favorite flavor is?” Harry demands, he’s been doing a lot of demanding recently. 

“I know everything about you.” Malfoy says, “Every. Last. Thing.”

“Nah, you have to prove it,” Harry says. 

“You’re on. Okay.” Malfoy says, “Ask me ten questions. I’ll get them all right.”

“Nah, I’m not doing that.” Harry says quickly, wishing he hadn’t issued the challenge. 

“Scared?” Malfoy says. 

“You wish.” Harry says quickly, his face burning. “Alright. Ok. Let’s do this.”

“Let’s raise the stakes a bit. If I get even one wrong, you win. I’ll show you how to get to the hidden things in our greenhouse.” 

“Okay.” Harry replies nervously, “And if you win?” 

He’s expecting Malfoy to say something terribly humiliating. Something hurtful, like being locked in a room full of cornish pixies, instead he simply says, “If I win. You have to kiss me.”

Harry would have preferred the pixies. He racks his brain for a question, a good, hard question. That requires knowing things Harry doesn’t generally talk about to anyone. Things that can’t be found in the press. 

“Where was my first Hogwarts letter addressed to?” Harry asks triumphantly, that’ll stump him.

“This is amateur hour.” Draco retorts, “No. 4 Privet Drive. The cupboard under the stairs.” 

Harry blushes at the idea that he would have ever told Malfoy about his cupboard. Clearly past-Harry has bouts of temporary insanity. 

“Who was the first person I ever kissed?” Harry asks, surely he had never mentioned Cho to Malfoy. 

“I thought this was supposed to be difficult, the Ravenclaw seeker--that Chang girl. I think she was crying or something pathetic like that. You had a disastrous date afterward because you kept blubbering on about Hermione like an idiot.” Malfoy smiles, relishing his win. 

“Who’s the half-blood prince?” Harry counters.

“Professor Snape. But to be fair, that one is less about you, and I probably could have figured it out even without you.” 

“Okay.” Harry says quietly, he has to pull out the big guns now, “Why did Ginny and I break up?”

“She made a mistake with Dean, during the war. And you were all out of sorts after. She didn’t love you like you wanted. Broke your heart into about a million pieces. You tried to make it work for a while. You’re stupid like that, you like to fix things. But you couldn’t. Not this time.” 

Harry is taken aback. Malfoy shouldn’t know this. He hasn’t even told Ron and Hermione about this. Not exactly. Not clearly. He was so ashamed about having it not work out. He pretty much kept it to himself. 

“That’s four.” Harry says, “You can’t get the other six.”

“Try me, Harry.” Malfoy says smugly, continuing to lick his ice cream. 

“Those were just facts. That’s too easy. What about this? What do I hate the most? Other than you.” 

“Betrayal. And lies.” Malfoy amends quickly, “A sort of cocktail of the two is probably your exact poison. You can see that with how you lost your marbles about Pettigrew. Dumbledore. The Prophet and the ministry.” 

Malfoy has got half correct. And Harry’s getting a bit scared (or excited?) that he’s going to have to kiss him soon. 

“Do you know what I asked? When I used the resurrection stone to see my parents. Right before I…” Harry knows it’s an unfair question.

Malfoy pauses his polishing off of the remaining ice cream, holding Harry’s gaze deliberately, “You asked if it hurt. Dying, that is.” 

Harry is floored. But he can’t stop, so he keeps going, trying to find the deepest, most obscure things in the back of his mind. 

“What do I see and hear when I get near a dementor?” 

The ice creams have been finished now, and Malfoy is leaning closer, and speaking quieter, “Blinding flash of green light. Your mother, she’s screaming.”

Harry wants to ask so badly. It’s on the tip of his tongue.  _ Do you love me?  _

“Who’s my best friend? You can only pick one.” He says instead.

This is the first question where Malfoy has to ponder. Harry’s ecstatic. He’s almost won, until, “Ron. Almost had me. But Ron.”

“That’s eight.” Malfoy continues, “Would you like to forfeit? If you hurry it up you could still catch a taste of the ice cream I just had. There’s no shame in losing to your betters.” 

They pause the game for a moment. Malfoy is just smirking at him, insufferably. And Harry is at his wit’s end. 

“Why did I forgive you for what you did?” Harry thinks he’s found a good one. 

“That’s just who you are. You like to save people, Harry. Vile habit.” 

“Last one.” Malfoy adds.

“I’m keeping count!” Harry snaps. “Okay. Alright. Why am I in love with you? For real this time?”

Malfoy sputters, “Not answering that. That’s low. That’s--” 

“Answer the question, Draco!” Harry says, surprising himself with his use of Malfoy’s name. 

“It’s an unfair question.” Malfoy says chucking his empty ice cream wrapper in a nearby bin, “Fine. I forfeit. I’ll see you at the Weasleys. You win.”

He storms off in a huff, and Harry watches him as he leaves. He’s won, he thinks, that’s good isn’t it? But it feels more like losing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Demovere is latin for 'to remove'.


	6. I walked with you once upon a dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry meets Rosie. And maybe starts to realise that he wants to get back what he's been missing.

Harry wanders around Diagon Alley after that. Casting a quick glamour charm so he’s not mobbed. Earlier, when he was with Malfoy, people had kept their distance, but now he’s alone.

At first he tries in vain to see if he can catch up to Malfoy. But it seems like he apparated away immediately, and Harry has no luck finding him or thinking of where he could have gone. 

He feels suddenly quite lonely, not having realised how dependent he’s grown on Malfoy in the past week alone, just as a companion. Even if all they do is argue and pass barbs back and forth. And most of all. He feels like a jerk for asking Malfoy the question. Asking him so blatantly, why Harry would love him.

What was he playing at anyway? Winning the game? Getting an honest answer? Proving that Malfoy didn’t know him? If Harry’s honest, getting nine out of those ten questions right was proof enough that Malfoy knew him well. Scarily well. Better than anyone had ever known him. 

It was infuriating, having Malfoy know all of his secrets. And a part of him still thought that knowing all that he knew, Malfoy thought Harry more weak and pathetic than ever. It’s ridiculous, Harry thinks to himself. They’re married for fucks sake. But Harry still needs to know if Malfoy even likes him. And maybe even more importantly, if he respects him at all. At school, Malfoy always treated him like an inferior, an enemy, undeserving of being ‘Famous Harry Potter’. He had looked down on Harry for his rashness, temper, and naive belief in a black and white theory of right and wrong. How had they got past all that? He wonders, mouthing the words as he walks. 

He hadn’t cared about winning the game either, Harry realises as he walks. He pauses a moment to look through the window of Flourish & Blotts. He wanted to kiss Malfoy. He realised it the second he won the game and a wave of disappointment washed over him. 

And getting an honest answer? Harry begins to think that a him-and-Malfoy love--if it existed--is not laid out so cleanly. Maybe there never was an ‘I love you’. Maybe they never told each other why. Maybe it was just something they knew. And now Harry’s the only one who doesn’t know it anymore. Harry stops in his tracks, if that’s true, Malfoy must hurt like hell. 

***

When Harry arrives at Ron and Hermione’s flat it’s late. 

Hermione gives him a quick hug, and apologizes for not being able to stop by this week. She’s been swamped with work, and she’s been putting in extra hours trying to figure out how to get his memory back. 

Ron pats him on the back, escorting him in, and to Harry’s utter shock and dismay. Malfoy is already there. 

“When did you get here?!” Harry demands. 

“Must have been around four hours ago,” Malfoy shrugs, “Did you miss me terribly?”

“Draco, mate,” Ron says, “We discussed this. Don’t rile him up in front of Rosie. I don’t want her to think Uncle Harry’s gone round the bend.” 

“It’s fine, Ron.” Harry moves over to the sofa to sit next to Malfoy, “I’m fine. We had a perfectly normal day. We aren’t fighting.”

“Not at all.” Malfoy corroborates, “No trouble in paradise for us--no sir.”

“Right,” Ron says, not believing a word, “Rosie’s in her room, rehearsing. I’ll bring her and the instrument out, and she’s gonna put on a little concert.”

“What’s Rosie rehearsing?” Harry asks. 

Hermione sits down on the sofa opposite them, “A new song on the pianoforte. Draco taught her just today.”

“You play the piano?” Harry asks Malfoy, “Wizards play the piano?” 

“Well yes, Harry,” Hermione answers, “I played muggle piano as a child. But wizard piano is honestly delightful. We never really had time for instruments, and all that at Hogwarts. Given that every year there was always some sort of crisis--otherwise I would have shown you.” 

Harry is like a stuck cassette tape, and he turns to Malfoy again, “ _ You  _ play an instrument?” 

While Harry processes, Ron levitates an upright black piano into the living room. A red-haired little girl, looking to be around six years of age runs out of the bedroom on the right side of the hall, and barrels into Harry in a manner that reminds him, strongly, of her mother. 

“Uncle Harry!” she exclaims, “Do you feel better?”

She squeezes in between him and Malfoy, which makes Harry realise just how much space he had left between them. 

“Much, much, better.” Harry says, squeezing her hand tightly, looking at her and marvelling at how much she looks like both of her parents. Or even a young Ginny. With much bushier hair. 

“Do you want to hear my song?” she asks in that sing-songy voice only children have, “Oh please. Please. Pleeeaaase.” 

“He’d love to, Rose. Make us proud and don’t you dare make a single mistake. You’re better than that.” Malfoy pats her on the back. 

“Don’t listen to him, Rosie” Ron says sharply, “The only thing that’s important is to have fun. Now go on, we can’t wait.”

Harry’s heard muggle piano before. Briefly. So he thinks he knows what to expect. Until Rosie starts playing. 

It starts with a gentle melody. Smooth major chords that accompany a beautiful pastoral theme. 

As she plays a soft white cloud floats up above her. As if projected from the instrument. And colours and shapes form within it. It paints a scene of a green hill. With blooming wildflowers.

As the melody rises and falls, Harry feels a gentleness to the song. Its warm. And kind. And accepting. As if it's a lullaby. And in the image he sees a woman with red hair cradling a black haired baby. He looks around at everyone else. Wondering if they're seeing this. 

He looks at Malfoy, who is looking at the cloud with tenderness. As Rosie ends her song the cloud fades. Gradually into a mist. And then it's gone. 

They all clap. Harry gets to his feet for a standing ovation, "That was amazing, that was."

Rosie beams. And is soon squished in a Ron-Hermione sandwich. 

"How does it work?" Harry asks Draco, "Did you see it too? My mum."

"No." Malfoy says, and for once he doesn't make a snide remark at Harry for not knowing, "The clouds will show you what the music is making you remember. On the deepest level. It's an old wizarding lullaby. Most people remember their parents. Maybe your father taught it to her."

"And you taught it to Rosie?" Harry asks. 

"She's a fast learner. Unlike some people." Malfoy scoops her up and puts her between them again.

"Uncle Harry you look sad" Rosie says seriously. 

"I'm fine," Harry says, "The song was just. Really. Really. Nice."

"Have you been forgetting sleep again? Uncle Draco says sometimes you forget." Rosie asks. 

"I'll try to remember that." Harry says, "I won't forget again."

He chats with her a bit more after that. And listening to her adorable prattle lightens how heavy his mood has been recently. And by the time the table is set for the adults, she's ready for bed--having eaten before. 

"Before I go to bed I'd like a blimpy." she says to Harry. 

"A blimpy...what's that?" Harry asks.

"You don't remember?" she looks worried. 

"A blimpy. Right." Harry looks at Malfoy, begging for help so he doesn't break this little girl's heart. 

Rosie is looking more confused by the second. 

Malfoy looks at Harry, then raises his wand, "Why don't I go first tonight."

"Balimpus," Malfoy says loudly, enunciating for Harry's benefit, and a white balloon emerges from the end of his wand in the shape of a peacock. Which he then picks up and hands to her, "Blimpy."

Rosie looks relieved when Harry does the same. Conjuring a red owl. She goes to her bedroom clutching the two balloons and Hermione follows her to tuck her in. 

"You started this thing. Where you make her balloon animals from your wand. It's sort of your special thing with her." Ron mentions. 

Harry feels worse than ever. How many other little things does he not remember? Between him and Rosie? Him and Hermione? Him and Ron? And especially, him and Malfoy. 

The feeling grows during dinner. Whenever Malfoy, Ron and Hermione mention things that Harry doesn't know or laugh at a common memory. They have to stop and tell Harry about it. But it isn't the same. It isn't the same as being there at all. This group of the five of them (soon to be six) had got so close over the last seven years. Ostensibly because of Harry. And now he feels like he doesn't fit in it.

He feels strangely jealous of Ron and Malfoy. Hermione and Malfoy. How easily they get on. Those are  _ his  _ friends. And...he notes, that is  _ his  _ husband. Yet he doesn't feel the latter claim. He wants to. He wants to be part of this too. 

***

After they've said their goodbyes its just Malfoy and Harry in the hallway. 

"I'm sorry," Harry says suddenly.

"You are? What about?"

"It was an unfair question." He admits. 

"Okay." Malfoy says, not really seeming to accept the apology, "Shall we get on then?"

"Let's walk." 

"Have you gone mad? It's almost midnight and we live several kilometers away." Malfoy snaps. 

"We won't walk all the way. Come on. It'll be nice. Fresh air." Harry says. 

"You know, Harry. There's perfectly fresh air inside."

"Not scared of the dark are you?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Fine. Let's  _ walk _ ."

Harry leads the way down onto the street. It's deserted and quite dark were it not for the white lights of the streetlamps. 

"Only you can make walking sound like a low, dirty thing. Its a talent." Harry smiles. 

"At least you admit I'm good for something. Fucking ungrateful most of the time aren't you?" 

"I have been a bit. Yeah." Harry admits. 

"Oh." Malfoy seems surprised at that, "Well-"

"Have I heard you play? Is there a piano hidden somewhere in that greenhouse?" 

"Yes and no." Malfoy replies shortly. 

"I would like to. Sometime."

"That could be arranged." Malfoy inches closer to Harry as they're walking, so their hands occassionally brush together as they walk. 

"Did you see your mother too?" Harry asks, "In the cloud when Rosie was playing."

Malfoy nods. 

"She's the one that plays. She taught you." Harry realises. 

Malfoy nods again. 

"That must have been nice."

Another nod. 

"Why are you so quiet?" Harry asks softly. 

"Why aren't you? Do we always need to talk?! All the time. Can't you ever just shut up, Harry."

Harry is silent after that. He can hear the wind. Their footsteps. He sees their shadows on the pavement. Every time Malfoy's hand brushes against his it's warm. So warm. Especially compared to the cold March air. They both have pockets in their robes. And their hands would be much warmer there. They both know how to cast warming charms, but neither one pulls out their wand to cast one. 

Instead, Harry reaches for Malfoy's hand. Clasps it tightly with his own. And it warms him. 

They walk the rest of the way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The full song from the chapter title is from Disney's Sleeping Beauty 
> 
> I know you,  
> I walked with you once upon a dream  
> I know you,  
> The gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam  
> Yet I know its true  
> That visions are seldom all they seem  
> But if i know you  
> I know what you'll do  
> You'll love me at once, the way you did once upon a dream.  
> Once upon a night,  
> I dreamed we'd be together  
> In love forever.  
> Once upon a night,  
> I was wishing for a never,  
> A never ending.  
> Once upon a night  
> Once upon a time  
> Once upon a wish  
> Once upon a dream.


	7. If I loved you less I might be able to talk about it more

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco doesn't love with words.

Of course, as always is in Harry's life. Nothing peaceful can last. If it was painful before, not knowing if he felt anything for Malfoy. Knowing is far, far worse. 

Because with knowing comes a whole other set of complications. How much does he like him anyway? In what way? What does he want to do about these nebulous feelings that exist? What does Malfoy think about all this? What were they? How do they get back to normal? What _is_ normal? It's driving him insane. He cannot stop thinking about him. 

In short, once again, Harry is increasingly becoming obsessed with Draco Malfoy. 

Malfoy, Harry notices, has not changed at all. Since that rather long walk home where they held hands for over four kilometres. Nearly wordlessly. Harry expected _something_. Some sign. He doesn't know what kind of sign. Just. Anything. To show that something had changed. But Malfoy is the same as ever. 

Harry needs to do something. Anything. He needs to know how _affection_ works in this. This relationship. He hates just standing around and--

"Harry. For fucks sake stop staring at me." Malfoy glares, "What is it? Do you think I'm up something?"

"You're always up to something." Harry insists, "It doesn't have to be an evil thing right? You could be up to chopping a carrot."

"Now you're just reaching," Malfoy replies, "Besides. I've never sliced a carrot by hand my entire life."

"Why can't I stare at you?" Harry asks. 

"What?" Malfoy puts down his book, "You actually think that needs clarification?"

"What's the point of us being married if I can't stare at you whenever I'd like?" Harry says stubbornly. 

Malfoy's rubbing the bridge of his nose now, clearly exasperated, "Does this have to do with last night?"

"What?" Harry scoffs, "No. Why would you say that?"

"I never. Never thought I'd say this to you. But you're thinking way too hard." 

"Okay. What would you recommend then if you're so clever?" Harry demands. 

"Just spit it out. Whatever it is." Malfoy resumes reading. 

"I need to figure it out." Harry says simply then carefully goes on, "I need to know who you are. What you like." 

"Is that all?" Malfoy makes some space beside him on the sofa, "Come on then." 

"You're asking me to sit with you?"

"Not asking."

"Okay." Harry sits. 

Malfoy hands him the book, "Read it to me." 

"Why are you interested in the Memoirs of Nicholas Flamel?" Harry glances at the cover. 

"Will you do it, or not?" 

"Fine, fine." Harry licks his finger as he turns the first page and sees Malfoy grimace, "Alright. I won't do that."

He begins to read the preface. Which Malfoy was partly through. It's Flamel describing his last days. And how he's chosen to tell the story of his long life before he passes away. 

Harry has never thought he has a particularly good reading voice. But he tries to be even and keep a steady rhythm. Conscious at first, at being listened to. He wonders how many times this sort of thing has happened before. 

"Alright. Now it's chapter one." Harry transitions. 

"About time too. You can speed up a bit you know." 

"I know." Harry says, "But if I do that you won't be able to think about what was just said." God, he thinks, why can't they get through this _one_ thing without arguing. 

To Harry's surprise, instead of biting back Malfoy just laughs, "Have it your way, then."

Then, without warning, he shoves Harry over so he's on the far end of the sofa, pushing the book up towards Harry's head so that he can put his head in Harry's lap. He stretches his legs out along the sofa, but they're just a bit too long so his feet hang off the end. 

"Um." is all Harry can say. 

"Chapter one wasn't it? I know how hard it is to keep track when the book hasn't even begun." 

"Shut up," Harry says, and starts to read. 

Malfoy turns to his side so the back of his head rests firmly against Harry's stomach. And Harry, without thinking, lowers his left hand to rest in Malfoy's hair. Holding up the book with his right. This seems to have been the right thing to do, Harry notes, from the briefest little sigh Malfoy releases at the contact. 

He keeps reading, only pausing his gentle stroking of Malfoy's hair to turn the pages. Malfoy's weight is warm and solid on his legs and his hair has no right to be that silken soft. He resists the temptation to say anything other than what's on the page. Even though his heart skips a beat everytime Malfoy laughs at something Flamel wrote. Or makes Harry pause to make a snide comment. Because when that happens Malfoy turns slightly to face him, and it feels like. Well had Harry not been a wizard he would have said it feels like magic. 

It's a good book. It is. But Harry's distracted every time Malfoy moves even a little bit. Every time he breathes. At some points he's read out paragraphs and paragraphs without knowing what they're about. Sometimes he gets so caught up in this rare privilege of being able to touch Malfoy's hair that he stops reading for a second and he has to be reminded to continue on. 

It was midafternoon when they started. With plenty of sunlight streaming through the windows. When it starts getting dark, Malfoy sits up for a moment, and Harry is afraid that they're done, but he only points his wand to light a fire in the fireplace and lays back down. 

When he looks at Harry it's as if he's saying _Are you mad? We're just getting to the good part. Would be criminal to stop now_. And Harry feels so warm and good that he keeps reading with fervor. Even though, if he's honest, this is probably the longest he's ever talked in a long stretch like this. At least, the longest he can remember. 

But he doesn't want it to stop. He's so thankful that Nicholas Flamel invented the Philosopher's Stone and had this long, long life. Because otherwise the book would have ended hours ago. 

If he ever casts a patronus again, he could use this memory, Harry thinks. He concentrates hard on remembering everything about it. The crackle of the fire. The crisp sound the pages of the old book make when they turn. Somewhere in the distance, he can hear Kreacher hobbling around, cleaning things. The wind whistles outside. And here, in his lap, Draco Malfoy has fallen asleep. 

***

The reading incident just intrigues Harry even more. And a thousand more questions come to mind. But Malfoy doesn't really like to answer questions, he realises. He doesn't like having to tell Harry what they have. He seems to want Harry to just feel it. This is endlessly frustrating. Because each experience creates more mysteries than it solves. 

Clearly what they have together means something. And what it means gets stronger and stronger. But Harry still can't spell it out. Malfoy can be irritable and act like he can't stand to have Harry look at him. Then he melts into Harry's lap while he's read to. 

The next morning he yells at Harry for being a right mess and not using magic to cut his vegetables. He bemoans Harry's lack of wizarding sensibilities and says something about the sorry state of wizardkind if this is their hero. But then when Harry's done he stands right in front of him, reaching around to untie his apron, leaning in so close that Harry's sure his glasses are fogging up. 

When Harry's at the kitchen table in the evening, writing to Teddy and Andromeda, Malfoy stops by to correct his grammar. Point out that his handwriting is like chicken scratch. Or worse. And that letter writing is supposed to be an art, didn't you know? But later when Harry has one of his (now frequent) emotional crises about not remembering Teddy's childhood it's Malfoy who brings over an envelope of photos that he says he's been compiling for the past two weeks for exactly a time like this. 

It's not like Harry's any better, he admits. He too, rises to the bait every time. Says worse things, if he can think of them. He can't help it. He wonders briefly, lying in bed late one night, if it's some weird sex thing. That they have to rile each other up like this. And use that frenetic energy to--well--shag each other's brains out--but that can't be right. 

He considers something crazy. Why can't he just ask Malfoy. Just ask him straight if he even likes him. Or if Malfoy thinks he's an idiot who just happens to be good in the sack (Harry assumes). And good at reading things out loud. 

After all, Malfoy is just lying there in the next room. Sleeping. He might as well. It's not even that late. 

It's when he opens the door to his room and steps into the hallway that he hears it. He's surprised he hadn't heard it before. 

"Oh, Harry…" Malfoy's voice sounds from inside the room. He sounds coarse and rough. And oh...Harry realises. He's...he's calling for Harry. 

Harry's hand unlocks the door to the room seemingly of its own accord. He's hardly prepared for what he sees. 

Malfoy is spread eagled on the sheets. Duvet flaying every which way. He's wearing a white t-shirt that Harry recognizes as his own. And, nothing else. His bare legs are pale and lean. Malfoy's hand is on his exposed cock similarly pale but not as lean as Harry might have thought, and Harry can do nothing but gaze transfixed, as he strokes the length with a quick fast, rhythm. Malfoy's eyes are closed, and he's leaning back onto the pillows, as he rubs the base of the head and then resumes methodically moving his hand up and down the shaft. 

"Harry...Harry...Harry…" Malfoy says, "Oh…"

Harry wonders how he can possibly make it out of this alive but thinks it might be an alright way to die if the last thing he saw was Malfoy. Mouth agape, elegant fingers wrapped around his perfect cock, dripping with pre-cum and calling out Harry's name. 

Harry feels the blood go to his own groin as he watches. And by the time Malfoy comes, spraying all over the dark maroon sheets, with a deep exhale, and sweating through that tight white t-shirt--he's ready to accept any punishment Malfoy wants to give him for having watched that to completion and not left immediately. 

But to Harry's great shock, Malfoy only turns to look at him, and he looks disheveled and a bit confused, "Sorry, love, did I wake you?" 

"Er--No. I." 

"Go back to sleep."

Harry takes that as his cue, closes the door quickly and sprints back to his room and onto the bed. He casts a quick muffliato charm, and he thinks Draco Malfoy is the most infuriating man alive.

But minutes later, when the tension releases, and he spills all over his wand arm, he moans Draco's name. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a quote from Jane Austen's Emma


	8. It's you...It's always been you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a way its nice, to know that if he had to do it all again--and he does--he would still choose him.

That morning Harry wakes up to warm, dappled sunlight streaming in through his bedroom window. The first sun of the morning. And Draco is right there at his bedside. Because it is too early in the morning and he looks too golden and glowing and marvelous to be Malfoy. He is Draco. He can only be Draco. Harry's in that halfway home between awake and asleep, and through squinted eyes he sees the other man, quill in hand, writing a note and leaving it on Harry's bedside. 

He feels Draco part his wild, unruly hair, and lean down and kiss his forehead--right on the scar, "Morning, Scarhead."

As Draco turns to leave Harry grabs his wrist, and mumbles drowsily, "Stay. I'll read to you. Anything you want."

"Anything? Even 1001 Magical Herbs and Fungi?"

Harry groans, "Maybe not that."

He hears Malfoy laugh at that, and the sound of the door closing behind. He's asleep again within minutes. 

***

When Harry wakes up the second time the first thing he does is grab at that note. Wondering if it will in fact mention, even subtly, what happened last night. But Malfoy is apparently more concerned with letting Harry know his day plan than discussing whether or not it's entirely appropriate for Harry to watch him wank. 

_ Working all day. Stay out of trouble. -D _

Typical, Harry sighs, but he's more amused than frustrated now. 

After a quick breakfast prepared by Kreacher, Harry heads back upstairs on a mission. He will do everything he possibly can to discover the pieces of their relationship and attach them back together. Harry's spent altogether too much of his life not knowing the important things. First about being a wizard. Then about his godfather. His link with Voldemort's mind. And then realizing after all that time that he wasn't meant to survive at all. It can't happen again. Not this time. Whatever he and Malfoy have, it's too important. He has to know.

And that starts with that bedroom which he's been avoiding for so long. Since the door to it, and, Harry notes, what it represents, has been figuratively and literally thrown open. Now is as good a time as any. 

The walls are a pale blue. The bed, it's head facing the wall that connects to the door, is large and ornate. Definitely Malfoy's. The sheets are old and plain. Definitely Harry's. 

Malfoy keeps his clothes in a large dresser at the other side of the room. Which is so typically him. There is a much smaller shelving unit which is empty now that Harry assumes he probably uses. 

There's a pair of Harry's glasses on the bedside table gathering dust. He wasn't aware he had two pairs, but it must have happened some time in the missing years, since he's also wearing them now. 

Harry feels a stir in his chest cavity. The last time he went to bed with Malfoy he took off those glasses and put them there. When he went to work the next morning he must have grabbed the other pair. And in all the time that's past Malfoy hasn't moved the glasses an inch. It's strange, almost like real evidence of this other Harry. The Harry that loves (and is loved?) By Malfoy. This happy, giddy Harry that sleeps with Malfoy and has his whole life make sense and sleeps with Malfoy and remembers the only part of his life without Voldemort in it. And not to put too fine a point on it, sleeps with Malfoy. And now, present Harry realises with a pang of sadness, Malfoy desperately misses him. 

Beside the glasses is another wedding photograph of just the two of them. But not framed. Which is weird, since all the other Malfoy-and-Harry photographs in the house were framed. Harry suspects Malfoy is very particular about it.

There's damage to the picture too. It's smudged in places as if it's been wet and then hastily dried. And photograph Harry and Malfoy are moving closer together to avoid the smudged edges. Every so often photo Harry-and-Malfoy kiss. And it's a credit to their photographic selves that it's slightly different each time. Sometimes quick. Sometimes fast. Sometimes a full on snog, where Harry dips Draco in an especially melodramatic way before planting one on him. Sometimes Harry kisses him on the cheek, softly before waving towards the camera. More than once, photo Malfoy rolls his eyes. He's probably tired of all the photos being taken. But he's enjoying this. They're both enjoying this so much. 

On the back of the photo Harry recognizes his own scrawl. Which interestingly enough, has improved in the time he's been with Malfoy. The letters are bigger, more round and precise. He hasn't written much.

_ Now you can't be rid of me. -H _

Harry can imagine it. Writing in his own hand, in no uncertain terms that he never wishes to be parted from Draco Malfoy. Maybe it was a post-wedding gift Harry gave. Or maybe he just used to do this all the time, leave little notes for Draco to find. Like Draco's been doing for him every morning. 

More and more now in his mind, it's Draco and not Malfoy. He's not sure why. He wishes he could write more on the photo now. Leave it here for Draco to find. Something that would make this whole mess better. He considers what he could possibly write:

_ Still can't be rid of me. Even if you want to be. -H _

_ I'm still with you. Even if you drive me mad. -H _

_ I'm not going away again. Unless I can drag you with me. -H _

_ I'll never leave you. I've already been away too long. -H _

  
  


He considers it, but for some reason the picture feels private. A gift from another Harry from another time. And he doesn't want to ruin the memory. He's ruined so many things for Draco already. 

After putting it back he lies down on the bed for a while. It smells like Draco. Fresh pine and musk. A hint of citrus. It's what Harry smelled around amortentia, he remembers, all those years ago. How had he not put it together at the time?

When he gets up he notices something is under the bed. When he reaches out he feels twigs and wood. They're broomsticks. And there's two. Easy access, right under the bed. They probably flew a lot. Playing seeker's games.

He fiddles around in the drawers attached to the bedside table. A watch that's continuing down days backwards. The Flamel book. Draco's hair gel. And lubricant. Muggle lubricant. Harry flushes. There are spells that can conjur that sort of thing, but sometimes he supposed they just didn't want to take the time. Maybe there was only one kind of wand allowed in bed. That sounds like something Harry would say specifically to get a rise out of Draco. Maybe more than one kind of rise. Okay--now he was getting carried away. 

There are documents here too. So neatly kept. Post hogwarts professional certifications. The marriage certificate. 

It's the first time Harry has seen it anywhere in writing, and he realises that ever since the accident he hasn't internalized his changed name. Signing  _ Harry Potter _ everywhere. But here it is. Clear as day. 

_ Harry Malfoy-Potter _

That's what they are. The  _ Malfoy-Potters _ , Harry considers fondly. He looks at the wedding photo again, and reconsiders leaving another note. Maybe it can be a bit of a compromise. 

Harry conjurs up a bit of parchment and a quill. He'll write a new note of his own instead of adding more on to the back of the photo. Leave it right here for Draco to find. He thinks back to the message Draco had left for him this morning and knows exactly what to say. 

_ I am trouble. You married me anyway. -HMP _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this a short chapter! Will try and make them a bit longer


	9. As dark as I am, I will always find enough light to adore you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Draco's really been doing at work.

Draco had long since reconciled the difference between the way things were and the way he wanted them to be. The years behind him had taught him that lesson twice, and thrice over. 

In his youth, he had labored endlessly to have things his way. Having grown up being told you were special and important tended to have that effect on a person. And then he met Harry. Harry, who really was special and important, and didn’t even have the decency to act like he knew it. Harry, who constantly got in his own way, and took so, so long to understand the things that were right in front of his face. It used to get his blood running. It still did. 

For the longest time, Harry only lived in the black and white. Good and evil. Gryffindor and Slytherin. Dumbledore and Voldemort. No wonder he had never seen Draco in all that time. Draco, who was mired in shades of grey. Though, it wouldn’t be totally fair to blame Harry for this. There was something black and white about what Harry had lived. 

From what Draco knew of the muggles, their negligence was absolute. Completely intentioned and matching complete with the result, a boy who had neither home nor family. Harry’s childhood had been black. Without question. 

But Draco’s had been grey. Sometimes a light, soft grey, that pretended to be white. But in the later years a murky, dirty grey, that was all-too choked with black. There had always been love from father. But never love alone. With love came expectations. With praise came admonitions. Even his mother, who Draco knew at her core, was the purest, pure white, could not escape unsullied. Because she didn’t come with rules and expectations, snide rebukes and sharp, regular pronouncements. But she did come with a sister who was the blackest thing Draco had ever felt or seen. A sister who was allowed to teach a boy without even a wand about the darkest and most terrible of curses, and the animals, the muggles and their ilk who deserved them. There was no lightness in his memory of Aunt Bella. 

Even in the darkest moment of his life, there had been grey. Bowing before Voldemort and offering his forearm, he had taken the dark mark. But it was for her, all for her, because after Voldemort was done with Lucius and Draco, he would take Narcissa and break her too. And Draco could not let that happen. He had told Harry this much, years ago, and Harry had understood, at last. And Harry could touch his arm without flinching. Harry could forgive him for doing what he had to do. When they had kissed after that it had been bruising, forceful. Their mouths crashing together, he had grabbed at the hair at the nape of Harry’s head and slammed him against a wall. It had been a victory. Pulling the white, blinding light, that was Harry Potter into the world of grey at last.

It had been the greatest moment of his life. Draco knows, and to have it all taken away like that. Was a cruel, cruel joke played by a universe he knew already didn’t particularly like him. But he had always been resourceful, his sixth year directive to kill Albus Dumbledore was proof of that. Whatever the personal cost, which had of course been massive, he had done it. This would be no different. 

There were over two hundred different base elements he had tried so far. More than twice that number of secondary ingredients. And countless different ways of putting them all together. It was a finicky art at best, potion-making, and creating a new potion usually happened completely on accident. All those extra hours at work, all those late nights and early mornings when he would much rather be with Harry, would soon be worth it if he could have that one in a million accident. 

After all you’ve done to me, cruel universe, you could at least let me have that, Draco thinks. After the raid gone wrong, when Harry had determinedly stayed at the Weasley’s, tearing open each and every one of Draco’s insecurities and old wounds in the process, he had started with studying memory. With Hermione’s help of course. The theory was deceptively easy, memory was never gone, all the memories Harry ever had were still there, somewhere in his head. All memory charms did was make them harder to get to. The strongest memory charms made it so that you couldn’t get to them at all. 

It was a block you could get over, sometimes even without magic, if you tried hard enough. Draco had tried hard for that when Harry returned. Recreating the date at Fortescue’s ice cream parlor. Talking to him and treating him like nothing had changed, because of course for Draco, nothing had. It hadn’t shown any signs of working. There were countless potions, tonics he had found after that. Minor memory boosters. But nothing strong enough to break a block that had blacked out seven years. 

So he had tried stronger stuff. Using veritaserum as a base had been a master stroke. Because at the core of memory, was truth. There was some element of amortentia as well, because what was a memory, especially Harry’s memory, without love? He had done the tests on himself, late in the night. 

He would lay out chocolate frog cards on his desk. A stack of one hundred and fifty, borrowed from Ron, without any explanation given. Pick out one at random, then write down the name on some parchment and flip it over. Then he would hex himself with a minor memory wipe jinx that would take out the last two minutes or so. Drink the potion, and try to remember. It wasn’t an exact science. 

It had taken several days before he even got close. The right answer had been Ellen Birtwhistle, a herbology professor who had first tamed the Venomous Tentactula. After drinking the potion he could remember it was something to do with plants. That was a start. 

There was something potent missing. He could tell. He tried a number of things. At one point dropping in a few drops of his own blood, because blood magic was nothing if not potent. Still, nothing. He wrote back and forth to Hermione every other day, trying to narrow down what really made memory, memory. He had truth, and love. 

It was with his head in Harry’s lap, listening to the words of Nicholas Flamel, that he found the next piece. He liked the feeling of Harry so close. And his steady voice reading out how Flamel thought, despite having lived for so long, that time was ultimately most precious because it was fleeting. That’s what was needed. Because what was a memory, a moment, if not fleeting? He had felt so happy then, and had to stifle the urge to throw the books aside and pull Harry into a kiss, settling instead for closing his eyes and letting Harry card his fingers through his hair. 

The trouble was, there were many, many potent magical substances that were fleeting. Most were. Having to be harvested only during the full moon. Every seven years, on a tuesday that fell on the seventh day of the month. The horn of an animal only seen by those who were born with two left thumbs. Maybe that last one he was making up. But in any case, it was almost impossible to find the right thing. 

He had tried many, many things. Nearly exhausting his personal potion ingredient fund (which Harry had wisely limited to be no more than 175 galleons a year), and his pull with various peddlers of exotic materials. Thankfully name-dropping Harry could get him almost anything. 

Something fleeting. Something fleeting. Here today, gone tomorrow. He had been thinking about it when he kissed Harry good morning as he left his note. The one time he had done so when the other man had been, at least slightly awake. The morning was fleeting. Could it really be so simple? 

The morningflower, a blue flower that grew close to magical dwellings in the moors. Blooming for mere minutes during sunrise, and then not again. It was an ingredient in Felix Felicis. The best, most potent ones bloomed in Yorkshire. They were devilishly tricky to find and had to be plucked in bloom if they were going to work at all. 

Hermione found some evidence that this was correct. Upon wandering in moors known to contain morningflowers, during the sunrise, witches and wizards of the past had noted feeling overwhelmed with nostalgia. And feeling glimpses of the past they rarely thought about. It was promising. But there had to be more, a fourth component, to make it complete.

_ Have you considered that maybe it’s personal?  _ Hermione had written to him.  _ Maybe it has to be something particular to Harry himself.  _

That wasn’t a bad idea. So Draco had tried that too. Snipping some of Harry’s hair in the morning while he was asleep. Making stirring motions in the shape of a lightning bolt scar. But he felt idiotic doing it. These were all such superficial things. He wasn’t that surprised when none of them worked. But after a long day of trying, barely making the quota of veritaserum he had been asked to make alongside this mammoth personal project, it was almost too much to bear. 

He wanted to be able to go home. Sink into Harry’s arms and complain all about it. Hear Harry’s gentle rebukes and fall asleep to the oh-so heroic tales from the auror office. Oh god, how pathetic, he thought. He wanted to be taken care of. It was enough to make him want to vomit. 

He hasn’t felt this level of desperation since he was working on the vanishing cabinet. And even in that, there was the small solace that if it didn’t work, at least he would die soon, and quickly. This pain on the other hand, would never end. 

Draco closed his eyes and thought of green ones. Of whispers in the night. Lazy mornings in bed that he had pretended not to approve of. Harry’s terrible jokes that he secretly (or not so secretly?) enjoyed. The flying, Quidditch and the naked freedom it gave them both. Being able to explore Harry’s body at leisure and do with it what he liked. The feel of Harry’s magic enveloping him as they fucked. Lying there, and letting Harry fuck him, the rough, full feeling of it. Kissing him in dark corners all about the house, pretending to be themselves at school. All ‘Malfoy’, and ‘Potter’, and ‘Fancy a shag, chosen one?’. It means something, he supposes, that even the really, really stupid things were fun. 

And suddenly, to his utter humiliation, he’s crying. Really, really crying. In a disgusting way that makes him so thankful that no one else is crazy enough to work this late. He’s not even thinking that clearly any more. Just  _ Harry _ . And  _ Fuck _ . And  _ Too good to last.  _ And it’s a snotty, whimpering, entirely inelegant way to cry. Father would be so disappointed. 

When he’s done, and doesn’t think he can possibly sink any lower, he almost doesn’t notice the effect his tears have had on the open vial of potion nearest him. The liquid turned from a dull violet, to a brilliant silver, almost like unicorn blood. And it’s glowing. 

That’s just great, Draco thinks. Perfect. The ‘personal’ ingredient the potion is missing is tears. As if he could ever get Harry to cry over him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Draco POV for you. Chapter title is from a quote by Johnny Nguyen


	10. We were together, I forget the rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry isn't one not to take matters into his own hands. He is after all, the chosen one.

“What would you do, Hermione, if you were me?” Harry exclaims over dinner, Draco is working late again, for the upteenth time--they should really give him a raise over there with the kind of hours he’s putting in. 

“I think you’re doing fine,” she says, “You’re getting to know each other again. Isn’t that what you want?” 

“I don’t know how to get to know him. He’s. He goes around insulting me, and acting like he’s too good for me one moment and the next he’s calling me ‘love’ and kissing me and all that.”

Ron raises his eyebrows, “Things can’t be that bad if you’re snogging any place you can. Remember when we were like that Hermione?” 

“It was once. He kissed me once.” Harry insists, “On the forehead.” 

“Harry.” Hermione says, and her voice is a bit sad, “You know he really loves you.”

“Yeah, mate,” Ron nods, “And you really love him. You’re just being a bit thick about it right now.”

“I know that much. I think,” Harry admits, “I just want to get back to where we were. Make things alright.”

“Harry,” Hermione looks at him with concern, “You have to give it some time. You’ll have to let it come back naturally. Things just don’t happen like that.”

“I wish I knew him better.” Harry says, not really listening, “He’s always working, now. I’m starting to think he’s avoiding me or something.”

“Well, here’s a thought,” Hermione offers, “Why don’t you go talk to his friends? I’m sure they could tell you a lot about him.” 

“Aren’t you two his friends. In this strange new world we live in.” Harry points out.

“Yeah, of course,” Ron says, “But I think she means like. The Slytherins.” 

“You want me to go ask Goyle what Draco’s favorite colour is?” Harry muses, “What’s he up to anyway, these days?”

“That’s one way you could go I suppose,” Hermione says thoughtfully, “I meant more like Parkinson and Zabini.” 

“Parkinson, the one who tried to sell me out to Voldemort?” Harry is incredulous.

“Everyone’s reformed,” Hermione insists, “But yes. Her.” 

“And Zabini, wasn’t he the--which one was he?” Ron thinks out loud. 

“The good-looking one.” Hermione says quickly. 

“Oi! I’m right here,” Ron snaps.

They devolve into laughter, and soon Ron and Hermione are distracted by Rosie bringing up her drawings to show them. It’s sweet, Harry thinks watching them as a family. If that’s what it takes to get closer to his own--the family that he and Draco made together, then he’s willing to talk to Parkinson and Zabini to do it. 

***

“If you’re trying to have an affair, you should be more subtle.” Draco says when Harry asks him for Zabini’s home address. 

Draco has come home late, way past dinner, and he’s reading a book about flowers in bed, which Harry finds extremely weird. 

“Don’t be like that. I just want to chat with him.” Harry says, bridging the distance between them and sitting next to him on the bed, close enough so that he can look at the page Draco is currently on, “Why are you interested in morningflowers of all things?” 

“Reasons.” Draco says shortly, “Why? Afraid I’m up to something?”

Now's the moment, Harry thinks. Now he can be brave.

Harry leans in close and whispers it in Draco’s ear, deliberately speaking very, very slowly, his hot breath making the hair at the back of Draco’s neck stand up, “You’re always up to something.” 

Draco slams the book shut, “If I am then it’s _your_ fault. You insufferable prat! I barely sleep anymore. I’m always at work. And it’s all for you and then you tell _me_ that I’m up to something you’re so--”

Harry kisses him. At first it’s just a gentle press of his lips against Draco’s. But he responds with a fervor. Pushing forward, capturing Harry's mouth firmly with his. Leaning in hungrily, and pulling Harry close. There has been too much distance between them these past few weeks and there won't be _any_ now. He wants to consume him. He _will_ consume him. Draco's hand is in Harry's hair and the other flush against Harry's back. And Harry, for his part is clinging right back as if his life depended on it. Draco is warm and solid. Harry's thrown his arms around Draco's neck. And all there is between them is heat. Draco's mouth is so, so soft and Harry feels himself melting into him. They're close enough that he can smell that pine and citrus smell that's been haunting his dreams. 

Draco works his mouth expertly against Harry's pausing for a second and then sucking gently on his lower lip, then whispering into Harry's mouth, "Still like that don't you?" 

Giving him no time to respond he continues. Pressing open mouthed kisses against Harry's slightly parted lips. Slipping in his tongue against Harry's and pulling them even closer so their foreheads are touching. He kisses just like does everything else. He's frenetic. And kinetic. And electric and chaotic. And he's kissing and kissing him so hard that Harry can barely breathe. His heart is thudding in his chest so fast it might explode. But he doesn't have it in him to stop either. Waves and waves of warmth go over him as he kisses Draco back. Twisting and turning and angling to get, deeper and closer and warmer. The wet heat of Draco's mouth is almost enough to overcome him. His hands snake around Draco's torso and he rolls him over to onto his back so Harry can lay right on top of him and kiss him some more. 

Draco is rock hard under him and they grind together as they kiss. As Harry buries his face in Draco's neck and trails kisses from his neck to his collarbone. Hard bruising kisses that make Draco moan with pleasure, grabbing Harry by the back of the head and pushing him down harder towards his own body. And the friction is unbearable. Harry's cock is throbbing and pulsing and the way Draco's feeling him up, one hand sneakily making its way up his shirt, kneading the muscles of his back is just making it worse. How could he ever have thought Draco would be cold? Every inch of Draco is practically scorching. And all of a sudden its all a bit too much too soon. He's practically trembling.

Harry's knows he's not ready to step right into the fire. He can't go any further than this. No matter how desperately he wants to. He's never been with a man before. And he's a bit confused. And scared actually--if he had to admit it. And what if Draco expects...him to be the way he was before? He's never, not even with Ginny, and this would be different...much different. And he doesn't want it to be less than. He couldn't stand it. Instinctively his face reddens with (shame? embarrassment? disappointment?--he can't tell).

"S'okay" Draco says, sighing, a rueful smile upon his lips--red and swollen from kissing Harry, "I know."

Harry has stopped kissing him now, and he's just lying there in Draco's arms. Even though they're both rather hard and desperately want each other and could really stand to be doing something about it. 

He nestles into Draco's chest, wrapping an arm around him. He just breathes. And he can relax as Draco holds him. The desperate feeling is already starting to fade. The heat pooling in his groin gradually subsiding as he exhales steadily. Within a few minutes, it's not so bad and he's calmer and no longer hot for Draco but warm for him. Warm like the humid, sticky summers of his youth. Warm like their first walk, hand in hand, that feels like so long ago. 

"You know? What the hell do you know?" Harry demands, but he's whispering, and his face is still quite flushed.

"You, of course." Malfoy says, "You prat. I know you. Lucky thing too, someone has to."

"Er-Draco?" Harry asks nervously, tracing shapes on the other man's chest absentmindedly with his index finger, "Was it like this...um. The other first time. We did something like this." 

"Not really. We weren't in bed together, for one thing. But what's it to you? I can see the thought clouding behind your eyes just come out with it."

"It's not unreasonable! If you did I mean, compare this time to the other time. If that was better or you liked the way it happened then more than--"

"Shut up. Just. Listen for a second. Get it through your thick head" he pulls Harry even closer and Harry can hear every beat of his heart in his chest, "Look. When I think about the past I don't have all these markers about how this was and how that was. That's not how it works. I don't know how else to say it you."

He continues, "We were together. I forget the rest."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title and Draco's ending line is loosely adapted from the following poem by Walt Whitman in his self-published book, Leaves of Grass. 
> 
> Day by day & Night by Night  
> We were together  
> All else has long been  
> Forgotten by me


	11. Each time you happen to me all over again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry goes to Pansy & Blaise for some advice about Draco.

The first thing Pansy Parkinson does when Harry enters her office is throw her shoe at him.

"What was that for?" Harry looks around for other potential projectiles. 

"Don't play dumb with me, Harry Potter. Draco may have had eyes for you since the day you two locked eyes but you will not pull one over on me!" she glares. 

"Draco made us promise we wouldn't hex you or that sort of thing if we came into contact," Blaise Zabini offers as way of explanation. He's standing behind her, arms folded and curiously calm, "She doesn't have any other emotional outlets. Hence the throwing."

"Draco didn't make me promise not to hex you." Parkinson hisses back at Zabini. She's sitting at her desk, wearing only the one shoe, and she looks extremely cross--though Harry remembers that as her default expression. 

Harry eyes her other shoe wearily, wondering if maybe Draco had a point in saying that if Harry went through with it he would not be responsible for loss of life or limb. 

"What do you want?" Parkinson says. 

"This is about Draco." Harry starts to say but she cuts him off before he can go on. 

"And you would dare...to come to me of all people to break the marriage contract!" she sneers. 

"What--no? Why would you think I want to do that? Are you mad?" Harry snaps angrily. 

Her expression completely changes, and now she's eyeing him suspiciously, "I'm an _expert_ in wizarding contract law. I just assumed that. I mean why else would you bloody make an appointment?! Okay. I'm still not happy with you."

"Yeah." Harry sighs, "Believe it or not. I'm not too keen about you either at the moment."

"If anyone's wondering, I'm perfectly happy with both of you." Blaise supplies, "And I think we should get to the point." 

"Wait...why are you here?" Harry asks, "I made an appointment with _her_."

"I invited him." Parkinson explains menacingly, "In case things got ugly."

"Nah," Zabini cuts him, "I popped in for a spot of tea actually. Speaking of."

Zabini has a weird talent of putting them at ease. Soon they're all sitting at the desk, sipping tea. Harry and Zabini on one side, Parkinson on the other. Harry feels like this is the strangest thing he has ever done. 

"Why did you come then? We were forbidden to see you after the accident you know. Draco is a very protective lover." Zabini starts. 

It no longer startles Harry to be referred to as Draco's lover, he notes happily--though hearing Blaise Zabini say it will take some getting used to, "Some advice actually. You two know him well. I think. If you're up for it."

When they stare at him silently he goes on, "He can be. You know. A lot. Sometimes. And he works all these hours that I barely see him. How could I possibly get to know him again?"

"Draco never works more hours at that place than he has to." Parkinson puts her tea down and squints her eyes as she thinks about it, "He's doing more than working."

"Mhm. Probably on another fix-it. Right after your accident. When you stomped on his heart and broke his spirit. He had a bunch of ideas to fix it. To fix you up again." Zabini explains, "You know you have a pensieve in your house right?"

"Yes," Harry admits, not sure where this is going. 

"You could use it. To see him more clearly." Zabini strokes his chin thoughtfully. 

"I'm not going to steal his memories. That's completely vile. And wrong. And--"

"Keep your hair on," Zabini goes on, "You won't have to. He told me he had set aside. Must have been dozens of memories of his own. Memories of the two of you. He was going to show you and have that fix it all."

"Why didn't he?" Harry wonders aloud. 

"Didn't tell us. Maybe it would have been too much for a person. Just watching seven years of that. Your _love_. I saw it happen myself in real time, revolting. Take my word for it." Parkison says smugly. 

"Okay. Do either of you two have any advice that doesn't involve...whatever that suggestion just was?" Harry sputters. 

"Well now let me think. He likes taking photographs of you. Maybe there's something there. Um. He stopped performing the pianoforte for people in sixth year. There's something to that for sure. You two travel a lot. And you like flying. Pretty sure you love it. I'll owl you if I can think of more. That's all I've got off the top of my head." Zabini lists off. 

"That was...useful. Actually. Thanks, Zabini. I'll be heading back now." Harry extends his hand, this is good stuff--and maybe, he can make something of it. 

"My pleasure." Zabini takes his hand and lowers his voice, "If you mess this up and ruin him, though. Pans isn't the one you have to worry about." There's a dark look in his eyes behind the pleasant exterior.

A chill runs down Harry's spine. 

"Wouldn't dream of it." Before he leaves, Harry picks up the chucked black shoe off the ground and lays it flat on Parkinson's desk, looking her directly in the eyes, "Throw whatever you'd like. But don't you _ever_ imply that I'd leave him."

She smiles at his retreating back and whispers softly to herself, "That's better."

***

But he doesn't feel the need to investigate Zabini's ideas. At least. Not yet. 

The next week at home is full of a kind of bliss Harry has never known. It's not that Draco is any easier to deal with now that Harry can his kiss him whenever he feels like it. Not at all. It's just that now it's easier for Harry to deal with the fact that he likes to live with someone who is not easy to deal with.

Draco has preferences in seemingly everything. When Harry puts the silverware away in the drawer after washing it by magic (the only way), Draco bemoans the lack of order. 

_You can't just shove it all in there._

These are forks, Harry thinks, yes you bloody can. 

Draco will also not let Harry pick which book they read in the evenings, the ones where he actually manages to return home from work early. He simply shows up, book in hand, plonks himself down on Harry's lap and shoots him a look that says _Well go on then_. 

It doesn't go very well when Harry brings this up either. It's right after they're done reading one evening. Harry is still absentmindedly stroking Draco's hair, when he asks the question. 

"Why don't I get to pick what we read?"

"Okay. What _would_ you pick. If it were up to you."

"That's just not on. I haven't had any time to think!" Harry exclaims. 

"Fair enough," Draco says, smirking, "I've got all the time in the world. Think about it, then."

Harry thinks about it. And nothing comes to mind. It's not that he doesn't like reading. He does. To an extent. But he's never had a list off the top of his head of things he wants to read. Besides, he doesn't remember what's been published in the past seven years. 

"I'm waiting." Draco says imperiously. 

"Hogwarts: A History. I've actually never read it." Harry says finally. 

Draco laughs so hard at this Harry thinks he might be dying, "Hogwarts: A History? You haven't read...That's the only thing you could...what...was the Standard Book of Spells your second option?"

"You would let me read it though. The standard book of spells I mean. Think the books are just a cover. You just like having my undivided attention."

When Draco leans up and kisses him after this Harry takes it as a resounding yes. And despite the snog on the sofa afterward, wiping any thought of Hogwarts or spellwork from Harry's mind, next time they're due they do end up reading it. 

It surprises Harry, constantly, how much Draco fusses over him. Over what he eats. How much he sleeps. How well he's (attempted to) comb his hair. If it was anyone else, Harry thinks, it would be suffocating. But with Draco, as one of the few ways in which he lets him so obviously _look after_ Harry, it just isn't. 

"Your shirt's wrinkled. Looks like you spent all day rolling around in bed. Can't possibly go out like that. Here take it off. I'll deal with it."

Harry begins unbuttoning his shirt and fights back the urge to say, _But I did spend quite a bit of the day rolling around in bed. With you._

"It's one reporter from the Prophet we're meeting. There might not even be photographs."

"You're _famous Harry Potter._ There are always photographs. Look at the state of your hair."

"Malfoy-Potter. And it honestly can't be helped. Just ask Aunt Petunia."

Draco grabs the shirt from Harry, and fires a quick ironing charm off from his wand. 

"She was a muggle." Draco scoffs, "Here I'll try. Hold on." 

Re-emerging into the room a second later with a bottle of hair potion, he squeezes some onto his palms and rubs them together, "I hope the irony isn't lost on you. Where this came from and how you've never used it."

"I know. I know. My dad's dad. He invented it. I'm sorry there wasn't always time at school for me to worry about my hair. There was this mass murderer about that really had it out for me. Maybe you've heard of him?"

Draco doesn't answer. He's leaning close into him now, working the stuff into Harry's hair. And he can smell him. All lemon and pine. And ginger today as well? Or maybe that's the potion. Harry's suddenly very conscious of the fact that he is not wearing a shirt. And Draco is basically a centimeter away, with his fingers in Harry's hair. 

"Ow. Don't pull it! That's sensitive." Harry says sharply. 

"Is it?" Draco says thoughtfully, "Interesting."

He kisses Harry quickly before pulling away, then hands him a mirror. 

It's so strange and flat, Harry thinks. All slicked back and shiny. Rather like Draco's hair was like their first year. But not quite as bad as that. There's still some curl that no amount of that stuff will be able to tame. And already a part of him can feel it fighting back. 

"Yeah." he says finally tossing the mirror aside, "Let's never do that again. Actually wait."

Harry sets his glasses aside. And does his best impression of a smarmy, self important git he once knew, looking directly at Draco, "Scared, Potter?"

Draco raises his eyebrows, "That's supposed to be me? You fucking wish."

He slams Harry hard against the wall. And kisses him hard. Pinning his arms against the wall and sucking down on his neck with a fervor. All teeth and tongue and just a pure kind of unfettered lust Harry had no idea he had in him. He won't stop until Harry reminds him, between shaky breaths, about the interview. And how they'll quite possibly be late. 

As it is, they barely make it. And Harry is pretty sure the love bite will be visible in the photograph that's taken of him, though he realises too late to do anything about it. But hey, he tells a fuming Draco, at least their shirts aren't wrinkled. And isn't that the important thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title quote is by Edith Wharton.
> 
> I don't think that kissing is going to solve all their problems. But it is fun to write about. 
> 
> Later chapters will get back onto the two side plots of them trying to find more about each other + getting the memory back. But right now I just wanted to them to be a little happy. They deserve a little happiness.


	12. The wound is the place where the light enters you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry waits for Draco to come home. And knows he can't keep hurting him anymore.

The next night Harry waits up for Draco to return from work. And it's incredibly boring. Just sitting there. Reading through his own course notes from auror training. Periodically looking up to see if there's a light flickering down the hall. Or the sound of footsteps. He knows Draco usually enters quietly. Ostensibly so as not to wake Harry. Though if you confronted him about having done so tender a thing, he would probably deny it.

It's raining tonight. It's been raining all day actually. And there's a cold and damp in the very air. It's almost three when Harry hears the creak of the door. 

He runs towards the sound. Draco's cloak is sopping wet. And dripping in front of the entryway. 

The door is still open, and Harry can hear the rumble of thunder outside. 

He flicks his wand and the door slams shut, "Come on inside. You'll catch your death."

Draco looks at Harry as if he is a revelation. Harry can't tell if the look on his face is confusion, elation or a pain so painful that it's morphed into pleasure. But what he can tell, when Draco lowers the hood of his cloak and shakes his head--making water droplets go flying, is that his eyes are swollen and red. 

"Did-did something happen? You look. Almost like you were--" Harry starts cautiously, reaching to unbutton the top button of the cloak. 

"S'not working is it!" Draco slams his fist against the wall, wand in hand--and red sparks come shooting out. 

"Hey," Harry says with a tenderness he didn't know he had, "You'll get it. It's probably just a matter of time. And whatever it is. Even if you can't do it I'll still--you know."

He looks pained. And tired. Looking at Harry with a kind of feverish desperation. Searching Harry's eyes for something he's afraid he might not find. 

"Sometimes even I don't. I don't know if you--" Draco chokes out finally and Harry can hear the storm get quieter for a moment. 

"I do. Of course I--" Harry pulls him forcefully into his arms, "Don't--don't go and worry about something like that."

The wet and damp from Draco's clothes seeps into Harry's pyjamas. It's ice cold and gives him an instant chill down to the bone. He doesn't care. Droplets of rainwater from Draco's hair drip onto Harry's neck. He feels Draco exhale, the sound so close to his ears and the feel of his breath on Harry's shoulders. Quickly at first--as if he's been running a long while, then gradually slowing down. 

He moves his hand to hold the back of Draco's head, grabbing a handful of sopping wet white blonde hair. 

They stay like that for a few moments. And despite all the cold. The fact that he's practically shivering. And dripping wet against Draco. Harry thinks this might be the warmest he's ever felt. 

"I told you." Draco relaxes into his embrace, "Told you not wait up."

"Yeah." Harry says fondly, "Because if there's one thing you can count on with me. It's that I always, always follow the rules."

Draco laughs a bit at that, and then lets Harry go, "This is ridiculous. Now you're all wet as well."

"All's well that ends wet?" Harry jokes. 

"That's not even. Forget it. I'm going upstairs to change. I'll be daring and assume you can take care of yourself with a decent drying charm? And make some tea too since you're up anyway." Draco says, hanging his wet cloak on the rack. 

"Phrasing things as requests rather than orders. Just something to work on!" Harry shouts at his retreating back, but busies himself with making the tea anyway. 

By the time Draco is back downstairs, in his own pyjamas, Harry has laid out tea for them both at the kitchen table. Along with a small tray of biscuits. 

They sit in silence for a bit. Harry is especially focused on dipping his biscuit in his tea, and biting it off when it's particularly warm and mushy. Every so often he sneaks glances at Draco. Who is, to his great relief, much drier and far less crazed looking than mere moments before. 

"What are you working on anyway that's got you all-well…" Harry begins. 

"Mmmm." Draco snaps a biscuit in half, "Classified."

"What's so classified you can't even tell me?" Harry says indignantly. 

" _This._ " Draco says, "Of course."

"You're infuriating."

"You're welcome." Draco smirks. 

"I'm sorry?" Harry raises an eyebrow, "Am I going deaf or did you just say you're welcome."

Draco sighs, "It's late. Admit it. You love it when I rile you up. You _always_ have."

"Oh? Is that why you do it? Because you think I love it?"

"Yes." 

Harry is more floored by this straight answer than by any witty retort Draco could have given. 

"That's--" 

"I also enjoy the look on your face. The rush of the win. It's like catching the snitch. Though I suppose you don't have too much experience with that." Draco continues, and the world makes sense again. 

"Let's play tomorrow then. Unless you're just talk after all, Draco."

"Day after tomorrow. And I'm not going easy on you just because we're married. So don't even think about it." 

Harry reaches for his hand and grabs it, "Wouldn't dream of it. Come on. Let's get you to bed."

Draco's hand is warm in his own, and Harry pulls him wordlessly up the stairs. Through the bedroom door, and then watches as Draco gets in their bed and sprawls out between the sheets. Harry just watches him for a few moments. He's not sure what he should do. What it would mean if he--

"Oh. Just. For fucks sake." Draco snaps, "Just get in. We don't have to _do_ anything. I'm exhausted anyway. And not in a fun way."

Harry does. And he's so quick to press his chest against Draco's back and wrap his arms around his chest from behind that he wonders if they might be magnetized. It's like a muscle memory. An old habit so deeply ingrained into his body that he doesn't even need his mind. 

_You're mine._ Harry thinks to himself. _I can remember that much._

"You know you never bothered to get your N.E.W.T.S." Draco mumbles sleepily. 

"What?" Harry chuckles. 

"I did, of course. Correspondence courses. But you went straight in for auror training. Aced the entrance exams without even trying. I wanted to kill you." Draco says, sounding a bit more awake with each word.

Harry enjoys the weight of Draco pressed up against him. Breathing against the back of his neck. His entire sphere of vision being just white blond hair. And the collar of plain white pyjamas with delicate silver stripes. 

He almost could care less what Draco says as long as he could keep holding on to him like that, "How come you're always so jealous? I mean. Were you always--"

"Always." Draco groans, "You don't understand Harry. In my life, from the beginning. Things always had to be a certain way. I was expected to be someone. The pure-blood stuff was only part of it."

"Then tell me. I want to know. I want to understand." Harry insists. 

"Mother told me it starts at birth. If you don't start showing signs of having magic people start to worry. That you're a squib or something. Or just hopelessly impotent." Draco explains. 

"No. No way. You didn't show signs of magic early?" 

"If you tell anyone about that. I'll. I'll make you pay." Draco answers sharply. 

"Humiliating as it is to admit. It does make some sense. Infants do magic when they want something they're not getting. It's involuntary. And second. I was. Well you might call it shy."

"That's weird. I always thought you popped out of the womb a show-off." Harry cuts in. 

"No, that was you. Keep up." Draco continues, "Father was furiously worried. I was two at the time. I think. Still well before most children are expected to show. Never heard the end of it after that." 

"At the start of it all. Before everything went to shit. And they threatened mother. And all of it. I just wanted to _show_ him. And for you it was just so easy! Of course I was jealous." 

"It wasn't. Easy, I mean. For me."

"I know, you prat." Draco says affectionately, "I only thought it was. And that was bad enough." 

"It really wouldn't matter." Harry muses, "To me. If you were a squib. Or anything. I don't care that you're a former death-eater. Or that you did things under pressure that were wrong. You don't have to show me anything. I know you for real."

"Don't be a sap."

"I mean it." 

"So do I." Draco says, and he sounds happier than Harry's heard him sound in weeks, "I mean it. Don't go all soft on me just because I got rained on. I hate that. It's revolting."

Harry contradicts him, because that's just what they do, "You're wrong though. It wasn't for the rain."

He hears the words in his mind and knows that Draco knows it too. _It was for you._

He feels Draco's hand close tightly around his, "Goodnight, Harry."

"Night." Harry yawns. 

Within moments, sleep takes them both. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a quote by Rumi. 
> 
> I feel like there's certain things you can say late at night. When you've just been hurt or disappointed. "Rained on" literally or figuratively. That are hard to say otherwise.


	13. I loved you. I should have said it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They spend the day in bed together.

It’s the streaks of sunlight from the window that wakes Harry the next morning. Tinged red and filtered through the curtains, it winds around them both. Casting shadow and light across the tangle of limbs that is Harry and Draco. Gleaming off of Draco’s hair, like a little golden halo. 

They had changed positions during the night, or what was left of the night, Harry notes. And now Draco is sprawled across him and Harry is more or less flat on his back. He has an erection, and Draco is barely avoiding lying directly on top of it. 

He wants to wake him up and do something about it. But it seems almost cruel to do so. Draco is so peaceful now, more peaceful than he ever is. No meanness. No rage. No spite. No jealousy. Nothing. Just nothing. 

When Harry moves to extricate himself Draco tightens his grip on him. Long white fingers scrunching up the fabric of Harry’s shirt and immediately loosening when Harry settles back in place. 

“Fine then,” Harry says, rubbing his eyes, “Not like I have any place to go.”

Predictably, no response. 

Harry plays with Draco’s hair idly as the other man stirs lightly in his sleep, “You’re a pain in the neck honestly.” 

"Don't know how I've put up with you for so long." Harry chuckles quietly.

"I know you better now than ever but there's more. There has to be more."

"It's probably pathetic. Just talking to you when you're asleep. But it is the only time I can get a word in without you cutting me off. What's that about?"

"I know we had a past. It's pretty clear now, actually. But I don't care about that. Well. I do. But I care more. I care more about the future. With you I mean. I'm such an idiot."

Harry runs his finger along Draco's face. Tracing his nose and the curve of his lips. He moves his hand down to caress his neck. 

"You look nice. I never told you." Harry reddens, "I think I first noticed that night at the Yule Ball. I don't even remember who you went with. I went with Parvati Patil, you remember her. But I was a horrible date. I was looking at Cho. And. And I was looking at you. You were awful to me that year. I don't think I ever hated you more. But I looked at you. Really looked."

"I like your hair." Harry continues, twisting strands of it around his finger again, "Couldn't really tell you why?"

Harry laughs, "There's just something. About it. I like that you're tall. I think. And I'm pretty sure I like it when you're being horrible to me. I know you don't mean most of it. I mean I hope not. Er-do you? Right. You're asleep. Well just assuming you don't. I think you have to be like that. Or it might throw something off. With us. Or something. You like me. A lot. That's just how you show it."

"Harry?" Draco croaks, squinting his eyes up at him, "What are you doing?"

"Playing gobstones. What do you think I'm doing? I just woke up."

"No," Draco's voice is low and grainy in the morning, "I--I forgot. For a moment. That you're still here."

"I don't really have any long standing appointments at ten in the morning." Harry points.

"None that you remember." 

"Lucky me." Harry smiles ruefully.

"Sorry. I didn't mean--"

"Wait. Draco. I was joking. It's fine... Hey. You apologized. You actually apologized!" Harry continues, "To me."

"I take it back." Draco says immediately. 

"You can't revoke an apology." 

"Yes I can. I can revoke anything I'd like."

Draco sits up in bed suddenly, "I feel awful."

"You were working late. And you nearly drowned yourself. Can I get you anything?" Harry asks, sitting up himself. 

"Some silence right now would be excellent."

Draco rubs his temples, "I've got to go back."

"To work?" Harry asks quietly.

"Yes, of course. To work." Draco sighs, "I almost had it. I think I drank too many though."

"Wait. You were drinking your own potions. More than one? Are you mad?" Harry suppresses the urge to whack him upside the head. 

"I might be. I married you didn't I?" Draco snaps, "Now get me some antidotes from my office. I'll need something strong to get through the day."

"I'll get you whatever you want. But you're not leaving." Harry grabs his wand from the bedside table, "I'll tie you to the bed if I have to."

"Normally I would love to take you up on that. But I'm needed at work." Draco insists. 

"I need you here." Harry counters.

"It's adorable. It really is. That you think that would work." Draco says snidely, "Just because I may have cozied up to you in the night for warmth doesn't mean I'm suddenly--"

"Forget that. I don't need you here. I want you here. With me."

He sees the darkened expression lift off of Draco's face. He sees him open his mouth once to argue. Then again. But no words come out. Harry hears the words 'overprotective', 'impractical', and 'prat' mumbled as he steps out to fetch some antidotes that might make Draco feel better. But all arguments are dropped after that. And Draco makes no attempt to leave.

***

He spends all morning at Draco's beck and call. Fetching blankets and food and books. As Draco fights off his fatigue driven illness. More than once, Draco falls asleep on Harry again. In various positions. Once slumped against his shoulder, still sitting upright. Harry gets a cold towel to cool Draco's hot forehead and scolds him once again for drinking his own experiments. 

Draco does not take well to the pain killing antidotes either, Harry discovers. After the first one actually drives his fever up. The next dose in the afternoon just knocks him out completely. 

By the time he takes the last one it's starting to get dark again outside their bedroom window. Harry realizes all of a sudden that he's spent all day in bed with Draco Malfoy.

"I want to look at our old photographs with you. Zabini told me you like to take them." Harry suggests tentatively.

"He should mind his own business."

"So that's a no?"

"I never said no. Go fetch it. This year's one should be in my office. And no, I wasn't flipping through it for sentimental reasons."

"Course not." Harry replies, excited. 

He returns with the album. It's a mostly non- descript brown, and leather bound. There is no photograph on the cover. Just a short cream colored label on the cover and the spine in Draco's handwriting. Just the number '7'.

He sits next to Draco on the bed, holding it, "Seven. It was our seventh year together."

"Yes. Well. We had to keep them in order." Draco explains. 

"Why are you being so weird?" Harry asks. 

"I'm not being--fine. We don't normally look at them together."

"Why not?" Harry is confused. 

"Because it's a gift!" Draco almost shouts, "You didn't really have photographs growing up. And you  _ like  _ that sort of thing. So I thought. Just to shut you up. I could give you these every year." 

"That's...really romantic." 

"Shut up. Or I won't do it again." Draco turns bright red, "Just, please. Don't read the inscription on the inside cover until I'm out cold. Or dead. Whichever happens first."

"Alright. Alright. Don't be so dramatic." Harry pointedly turns a page and skips the inside cover, "Happy?"

"I can barely contain myself for joy." 

Harry ignores him. The first few photographs, he guesses--seem to be from last winter. It was winter when he had his accident. So this album must record the year directly preceding it. 

The first few are just photographs of Grimmauld Place. In the snow. The snow moves in the photograph and Harry can see the lights twinkle from inside the house. The next photograph is of Ron and Hermione coming through the door. Rosie is with them. They're dressed especially festive. 

"It's a christmas party." Harry realises. 

There are photographs of the group exchanging gifts. Harry receives a book from Hermione. A Weasley sweater from Molly Weasley via Ron. Draco has managed to capture the moments quiet candidly. And they're all laughing and smiling. Especially Harry. 

"There aren't any of you." Harry says glumly. 

"I was taking them. What do you possibly expect?"

"Relax. Alright. It's fine. You could have at least photographed what we gave each other. That's missing too."

"We exchanged gifts privately later. Just." Draco turns the page rather violently, "Look."

"Why would we not just exchange them in front of--" Harry begins and is silenced with a glare, "Right. No. Stupid question."

The page they're on now reveals Harry's gift is a stack of bound together papers. With a bunch of sets of lines and strange markings. 

"Sheet music." Draco explains. 

"You composed something for me?" Harry is a bit touched, well more than a bit. 

"Don't let it go to your head! It was a mediocre effort on my part at best. I'm not that good at making music up. It's my one failing." 

"And I got you...what is that?"

"Vial of dragonfire. You wouldn't know anymore. Of course. It's not that easy to get . Since you have to bottle it directly from the mouth of a live dragon. You were investigating dragon attacks in Romania."

"Er--That sounds dangerous."

"This is you we're talking about."

"Why would I think you would want that?" Harry muses. 

"Family heirloom. They tend to be priceless magical artifacts. Typically one-of-a-kind. For the Malfoys it's a silver circlet that when worn protects the wearer from any kind of deceit. For the Weasleys it's that clock that can tell where anyone in the family is. And in what state. Ron has it now. The Black family used to have a spinning wheel that spun silver out of straw. Who knows where that went."

"What about the Potters?" Harry asks, then immediately remembers the invisibility cloak, "The cloak."

"Good to know you've still got some wits about you." 

"So the dragonfire. That was supposed to be an heirloom for…?"

"The Malfoy-Potters." Draco says quickly.

"We don't have any children though? Who would we pass it on to?" Harry wonders, "Unless."

"We had thought. Maybe...someday." Draco pauses, "You have a soft spot for orphans." 

"Oh." Harry says simply, shocked.

"Isn't bloody likely now is it? Just keep getting on." Draco turns another page for him. 

Harry gulps, and keeps flipping the pages. But he can't stop thinking about it. He had once wanted. Someday. With Draco. 

"This is New Year's Day." Harry says hollowly. 

There are more random photographs too. Lunches. Dinners. Quills. Late nights. Warm, crackling fires. There's a pattern there somewhere. Oh. Harry notices. He's smiling in every single picture. Not just smiling. But beaming. Practically glowing. Draco has not once snapped a photograph of Harry when he wasn't completely, incandescently, happy. 

"Wish there were photographs of you in here too." Harry looks at Draco fondly. 

"I told you once! I took them! What. Do. You. Want. From. Me." Draco looks more frustrated than ever. 

"No, just. Would have been nice to know. Um. I look happy. In these photographs. Were you. I mean." Harry builds up the courage, "Were you  _ this _ happy too?"

"How can you ask me that?" Draco asks scathingly. Aghast. He looks hurt for some reason. As if Harry had reopened an old wound. 

But unlike that day at Fortescue's ice cream parlor, Draco does not storm away in a huff. But he looks at Harry directly in the eyes, "No. No, you moron. Much, much more so."

"I--I--" Harry stammers, "I didn't mean--"

"Keep going." Malfoy commands.

Harry dutifully turns the page. In the brief uncomfortable silence that follows, he feels Draco place his warm hand in Harry's free one. Intertwining their fingers gently. And Harry relaxes. It's alright. They're still alright.

"These are blurry." Harry points out. 

"I was teaching you how to take them. You were awful."

He looks at each photograph individually. Mourning the loss of each moment. Each day. Each laugh. Feels the loss as a pang in his heart. These are his memories. He has a right to them. To the joy they represent. The love. 

A few pages later he sees a place that's completely unfamiliar. 

"The country house. South of France. It's been in my family for generations." Draco supplies quietly from his side. 

Harry looks different in these photographs. Lighter. Like a kid in a sweet shop. Harry turns the page, and he turns red just looking at the next photograph. 

It's himself. Shirtless. His bottom half covered in nothing but a thin sheet that leaves little to the imagination. His hair is a mess. A light sheen of sweat on his torso. He looks completely debauched. All kiss swollen lips and the kind of shocking  _ come hither  _ look that sends a jolt down present-Harry's spine. Is that really what he looks like? For Draco? 

"This. Um. You took this. What…" Harry loses all coherent thought.

"That was a wonderful morning." Draco says smugly. 

"You're terrible. Taking photographs like that." 

"Don't be so delicate. It's a private collection." Draco smirks, "The sheet was a compromise. For your inferior taste. I wanted to go for something a bit more--"

"Moving on." Harry flips the page again, hoping for the sake of his decency there aren't anymore.

Thankfully, the next photos are all of the gardens. And then all of a sudden they're back at Grimmauld Place. There's a purple haired boy sitting in Harry's lap that he recognizes as Teddy from the other photographs Draco has shown him. There are photographs of Harry with Rosie. Harry at the Quidditch pitch. A brilliant shot, taken from the ground, of Harry flying. 

Then there are the photographs of Godric's Hollow. There are none of Harry at his parents' graves. But there are some of him at the nearby pub afterwards. It confirms his other theory. Draco only photographs Harry's happiness. He doesn't want him to look back and remember pain. 

His heart surges with warmth. And leans over to kiss Draco on the cheek, "Can't believe it. You're...sweet."

"Don't call me that!" Draco snaps, but he looks pleased. Not in his expression, which is a sulk, but in his eyes--which Harry is slowly relearning how to read. 

"It's pretty late. You should actually sleep. Probably change into some different pyjamas from last night. Like I did while you were asleep." Harry feels his forehead, "You're still a bit warm."

"I'll sleep. But I won't change." Draco yawns, "Too tired."

"That's nasty. These ones are all sweaty now." Harry makes a disgusted face. 

"You do it if you care so much." Draco rolls onto his back, it feels like a challenge, one Harry wouldn't have taken a few weeks ago. 

Harry accios another pair from the wardrobe. Another white with silver stripes. 

He leans over Draco's body. And starts unbuttoning his shirt from the top down. 

Draco just watches him, eyes already starting to close a bit. Then shrugs out of the shirt when all the buttons are undone. 

Harry can see clearly now. And his mind shoots backward to the bathroom. Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. When he had cursed Draco and caused him to bleed out all over the floor. The scars are still there. They look darker against the thin white blonde hairs all over his skin. They've faded to a thin black. But there's so many. Criss-cross. And jagged. And Harry is sorry. So very sorry for what he has done. 

"Staring is rude." Draco mumbles sleepily, "Get on with it." 

He does. Helping him into the clean shirt. Then making short work of his trousers. He's seen much more than this before. Of Draco. From the waist down. But still, Harry can't stop looking. Draco has such long legs. Well defined calf muscles. And of course. Well Harry's eyes are automatically drawn there. 

"Your pants." Harry blurts out, "Are a nice colour."

Draco scoffs, grabbing the clean pyjama trousers from Harry and pulling them on roughly, "Don't get all shy now. I heard you this morning. Blathering on about how you were  _ looking  _ at me at the Yule Ball."

"You were asleep!" Harry says indignantly. 

"In and out of it. Didn't hear all that much. Just that bit honestly. But I'm flattered, really. You can have a better look tomorrow when I'm in the shower since you're so hot for me."

Draco lies back down and pulls up the sheet, closing his eyes, "Goodnight, Harry." 

"Prat." Harry mutters. 

He closes the photo album. And walks back to the Draco' office to put it away. As he's about to leave it on the desk he remembers that there's an inscription. An inscription Draco didn't want to be there to see Harry read. He turns to it. 

  
  


_ I don't--I can't say nice things to you all the time.  _

_ But you do deserve them.  _

_ You deserve everything.  _

_ With love, _

_ Draco _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should there be more photograph related chapters? There are 6 other books.


	14. He was pointing at the moon, I was looking at his hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco's finally honest. But has Harry made a promise that he can't keep?

The second time Harry wakes up next to Draco the sun isn't even up. 

Draco is dressed oddly. In muggle clothes, of all things. A black long-sleeved shirt emblazoned with a cockerel on a football and the words _Tottenham Hotspurs_. And jeans. Rather tight blue jeans. 

He's making a tremendous racket, throwing the room apart. Looking for something. 

"Draco. Are you okay?" Harry asks groggily, "Why are you dressed like that?"

"I was hoping to get away before I had to answer questions like that."

"You make. You make so much noise when you're nervous. I don't know why you would think that might work." Harry laughs. 

"I need your binoculars." Draco commands, "Stop laughing!"

"I'm sorry. I must have missed something. Are you going bird watching?"

"If I tell you what I'm doing and why will you give it a rest and give me a hand?" Draco folds his arms across his chest, "I'm warning you. I'm in no mood to be trifled with."

"Take me with you." Harry smiles, "Take me with you and I'll tell you what I did with them." 

Draco pauses, and then considers, "No questions. You'll do exactly as I ask the entire time."

"Yeah. Fine. I'm yours for today."

"Meet me downstairs in ten minutes. With the binoculars. Or I'm leaving without you." Draco storms off. 

***

"Okay. Here." Harry descends down the stairs fully dressed, tossing the binoculars at Draco, who barely catches them in his hands. 

"Where were they?" Draco inquires. 

"With Kreacher." Harry shrugs. 

"Odd." Draco offers Harry his arm, "Come on then."

Harry suppresses the urge to ask where they're going--remembering their terms--and grabs onto Draco's hand. 

With a pop they re-emerge. Harry doesn't know this place. And again fights the urge to ask where it is. 

They've landed in the middle of large, open moorlands. The tall grass, dotted with purple flowers and weeds, goes on for miles. And the only buildings he sees are blurs in the distance. There are footpaths all along the ground that wind between the landscape. It's almost dawn. The sky is a deep purple. And he can hear the light chirp of birdsong and the whistle of the wind. 

This time it's him who takes an extra bit to let go of Draco's hand.

"I'm looking for blue flowers." Draco tells him, "I have to find them." 

"Morningflowers." Harry says, remembering the book Draco was reading two weeks ago.

"Yeah." Draco turns back at him, surprised.

"It's for that potion. The one you're obsessed with." Harry goes on as they walk along the path uphill, stopping periodically so Draco can look around with the binoculars. 

"I said I wasn't going to answer questions!" Draco snaps. 

"It's a statement. You don't have to say anything." Harry retorts back, "Give those to me. I have a better eye."

"You're the one with glasses. How does that make sense?" Draco says, but hands them over anyway. 

Harry holds them right in front of his glasses and points them downhill towards the East. He sees faint specks of blue. 

"There." He points at it, "We need to go down not up. Come on."

As they're walking Harry remarks, "These are muggle trails. That's why you're dressed like that." 

Draco's shoes crunch against the ground as he walks, "I'm certainly not deriving any enjoyment from it."

"So you're not a morning person."

"Mornings are fine." Draco swats away a fly, "Nature is not. Especially like this. All untamed. Unkempt." 

"It's free." Harry gestures around, "It can be whatever it wants."

"How wonderful." Draco kicks the dirt in the path.

"Stop it!" Harry freezes, looking at Draco fiercely, "Look around. It's fantastic."

Draco nods, "It's not like I don't know. It's just that there isn't that much time left."

"There's plenty." Harry leads the way on, off of the trail towards the place he saw the blue specks, observing the sky turning a bit lighter, "We have the rest of our lives."

"So you're still in then?" Draco forces a casual tone.

"Yeah." Harry wonders if Draco is asking if he's still in love.

"I-uh. Asked Pans about the technicalities of it. You being in a marriage you don't remember agreeing to." Draco goes on, following Harry gingerly downhill, taking care where to step. 

But in an instant, he slips. Barrelling forward, the momentum pushing Harry to fall flat on his front and Draco lands flush on top of him. 

Draco gets to his feet first, and then pulls Harry up. 

"I don't care. About technicalities." Harry brushes the dirt off of his trousers, "You can't even walk down a hill properly. I couldn't possibly leave you to fend for yourself for the rest of your life."

"How charitable of you." 

"There's things in it for me as well." Harry smirks, this time holding his hand out for Draco when the path slopes downward again, “Watch your step.”

"Like what? What could I...a mere mortal who stumbles in the dirt have to offer the great Chosen One." Draco holds onto Harry’s hands as he steps down this time, and feels deeply indignant about having to do so. 

“That’s an unfair question. Remember?” Harry leaps down to even ground quite nimbly, then folds his arms across his chest and waits for Draco to follow. 

“Right. Course. But how are you so good at this? I can’t seem...to...” Draco takes his sweet time arriving next to him. 

“I think. It’s because you’re too worried about getting your shoes dirty than about where you’re putting your feet.”

“Very funny. Sooner we’re out of this ridiculous place the better.” Draco shoves the binoculars at Harry again, “Lead the way, genius.”

Harry takes the binoculars and holds them up to his face, then puts them back down, “Ask nicely.”

“You’ve got to be joking.” Draco looks incredulous, then swallows, “Okay. Please lead the way, dearest.” 

Harry takes a step closer to him, and tousles his hair, “Wasn’t so difficult was it?”

“Did you just put your dirty hand in my hair?” Draco exclaims.

“I can’t tell you how long I’ve been wanting to do that.” Harry squints through the binoculars, “There. About four kilometers away. Ground is fairly even now though, so you should be alright.” 

“Perfect.” Draco trudges after him. “Just peachy.”

“Since you’re so worried about getting there in time. Why don’t I race you?” Harry whips out his wand and shrinks the binoculars, dropping them in his pocket, “Probably more fun than just listening to you gripe.”

“That’s the first good idea you’ve had all morning. Where do you want to start--wait where do you think you’re going?” Draco picks his wand up from his pocket, and aims a mild stinging jinx at Harry, who has already started running ahead.

The spell hits his mark, and Harry has to stop and watch as Draco races on past, “Hey, that hurt! And a muggle could have seen that!” 

“All any muggle is going to see is _you_ being sorely beaten!” Draco yells over his shoulder. 

I hate him, Harry thinks. And casts the counter jinx at his leg. It takes a full minute to work. And by then, he has to break into a sprint in order to catch up. Which still takes a few minutes. It’s getting hotter now, and he can see the sky turn a pinkish yellow that indicates that sunrise is not far behind. 

He sees Draco running ahead of him, and he wonders what it would have been like to race him as children. Not on broomsticks, but right here on the ground. He breaks into a sprint. And by the time he catches up to Draco he's breathless, panting, and slowing down. The patch of blue is only a few hundred feet away. Draco is within arms reach, and if there's anything Harry knows about himself it's that he doesn't give up easy. 

He grabs Draco from behind, turns him around forcefully and before he can make any motion to resist Harry kisses him on the mouth. It's quick, desperate and overpowering. Draco smells like sweat and grass and he relaxes into Harry's touch like he always, always does. Harry snogs him as the sun creeps over the horizon, rubbing his thumb across Draco's cheek before breaking away. 

He grins cheekily and darts away. Draco, still smarting from the shock of it all, takes a full ten seconds to react and again give chase, "That's hardly fair! We agreed we wouldn't use things like that to distract each other!"

"I don't remember agreeing to that." Harry laughs back. 

"Fine! If that's how you want to do it." Draco charges after him and collides against Harry's body. 

They tumble right into the flower patch. In a swift motion, Draco props himself up over Harry, holding down both of Harry's wrists into the grass on either side of his head. 

They're both breathing hard. And covered with grass stains. 

"Fuck." Harry says, looking at where they're lying, "Looks like it's a draw."

"It's a draw when I say it's a draw." Draco hisses, "Now. Admit that I won."

Harry's eyes are gleaming, "Or what?"

Draco leans into Harry's neck then up to his ear, his hot breath giving Harry goosebumps, his voice is a low whisper "Or you can't have me later. On my knees. Sucking you off." 

He presses down against Harry's body just then, as if proving a point, not releasing his vice grip on Harry's wrists. 

Harry feels raw lust pooling inside of him. Every place that Draco is against him feels incredible. And he wonders if Draco means what he says. Because--Oh...if he does. If he does then Harry would lose. Harry would lose everything. 

"You win." Harry says finally, "You win. I lose."

Draco lets go and climbs off of him, sitting by his side in the flower patch as the sun rises above him, "At least you know when you've lost then."

"I'm rather good at losing things." Harry says, not intending to make the conversation suddenly serious. 

"I--" Draco starts to say, and Harry can see it in his eyes, he's not sure. He doesn't know this new Harry. If he's hurt him or not. 

"Except you, you know?" Harry looks up at the rising sun, "I've never lost you."

They sit there for a while. Just watching the sunrise. The sky goes from pink and gold to a baby blue. It's perfectly cloudless. A rare, perfect day. 

It's then, that Harry realizes they've forgotten about the flowers. 

"Draco. We missed it. I can't believe we--"

Draco is shaking his head, plucking a blue flower, "These aren't morningflowers. Just common weeds. I knew the second I knocked you into them."

"Oh." Harry is surprised, "Considering. Well. You. I sort of thought you'd be more. How shall I put this. Completely bent out of shape about this."

Draco reaches out tentatively and moves his hand about awkwardly, mussing up Harry's hair, "I'll admit. That was more fun than I thought it would be."

_I like you. I like you so much._ Harry feels warm all over at the touch, "This sort of reminded me of that other time. When you took Neville's remembrall. And I chased after you to get it back. You were so mean back then! Always had it out for me."

"Well of course. I hated you!" Draco explains, "And...I liked you. Your stupid hair. And your ridiculous _bravery_ . And how nice and normal and _boring_ you could be while also being. All of that."

"You liked me in school? For how long?"

Draco just blinks at him in response. 

"You liked me that whole time?!!! Since first year? Then why were you such an arsehole?!" Harry exclaims. 

"Why do you think?? For years I couldn't even admit it to myself. Then I knew I could never have you and I wanted to make you as miserable as you made me! And after that...I did what I thought would protect the people I loved." Draco looks back at him. 

"What if things had been different. What would it have been like." Harry muses to himself. 

"Much the same I should think. I wouldn't have coddled you or anything. Probably for the best. We would have killed each other."

Draco goes on, "Would have been too much."

"We do okay now." Harry points out. 

"You’re persistent. You wore me down. And, well, I'm so much more mellow nowadays."

"This." Harry stifles a laugh, "Is mellow?"

Draco just shakes his head, “Anyway. Doesn’t matter now.”

“I know where you can get those flowers.” Harry plucks a few of the blue weeds, “The real ones, I mean.”

Draco just looks at him. 

“In the book you were reading, it says they tend to grow near magical dwellings.” Harry goes on, “There’s loads of stuff growing in the Forbidden Forest. We have to try.” 

Harry watches as Draco’s hair blows around in the wind, golden white against all the green all around them. He waits for an answer.

“Okay.” 

***

“Did you have to ask Hagrid if we could borrow Fang?” Draco says scathingly, tightening his grip on the leash, “He’s just dead weight.” 

“Dogs have a good sense of smell.” Harry shrugs, holding up the lantern in the dark, “Besides. Last time, you’re the one who insisted upon having him with us.”

“I. Was. Eleven.” Draco snaps, “I can’t believe I’m here again. With you.” 

“Maybe it’s destiny.” Harry says hopefully.

“Destiny.” Draco scoffs, “Honestly what was McGonagall even thinking back then. We were kids. And the forest is forbidden. For a reason!”

“We were with Hagrid,” Harry gets a bit defensive, “Nothing would have happened.”

“ _We_ were not with Hagrid. _We_ were alone. In this damp, dark, disgusting…” 

“Are you done?” Harry asks.

“Dingy place. Now I’m finished. Roast duck is done. People are finished. Don’t they teach that at muggle school?” 

“Ssshhhh.” Harry clamps a hand over his mouth, “Do you hear that?”

Harry hears the rustle of leaves. The whoosh of the wind. The scampering of a small animal in the distance. And footsteps, definitely footsteps. He moves his lantern over towards the direction of the sound. Fang whimpers.

“Quiet, Fang.” Draco raises his wand, “That lantern only illuminates what. Half a meter? Let me.” 

Harry watches as Draco points his wand towards the sound, “Expecto Patronum.”

He’s never really thought about what Draco’s patronus might be. He didn’t know how to produce a corporeal patronus in school, he knows that much. Maybe he picked it up later. Harry expects a snake. Maybe a peacock. Maybe even, a ferret.

But no, the animal that emerges out of Draco’s wand is a dove. It’s so bright despite its size that it illuminates the entire area around them, and casts it’s light on a centaur in the distance that gallops away. Danger averted then, Harry thinks, relieved.

As the charm fades away Harry wonders about the dove. And suddenly it all makes sense. Draco hates the war more than anything. And it’s the war that he needs to be protected against. The war outside and the war within himself. Between light and dark. Draco is grey, Harry understands that, but at his core, he just wants some peace. 

“It’s just a stupid bird.” Draco says dismissively, “Stop thinking about it.”

“Who said I was thinking about it?” 

Draco sticks his index finger right between Harry’s brows, giving him a stiff poke, “You get a little worry line. Right here. Whenever you think you’re onto something.”

“I am onto something.” Harry insists, “I’m finding these flowers for you.”

“Excellent work so far.” Draco gestures towards the empty basket in Harry’s other hand, “Just a bang-up job all-around.” 

“It’s only been...how long has it been?” 

“Only about three hours.” Draco answers, “Come on. Let’s try this way.”

They traipse around the forest for a long while. Keeping an eye out for the flowers. 

“Of course we had to come here when the moon is at its smallest.” Draco points upwards at it, but Harry finds himself just staring at his hand. 

“I told you we should take a break. And try again tomorrow. When it’s light out.” Harry remarks.

“It can’t wait. I want to be here at dawn to collect them.” Draco says simply. 

“Okay.” Harry puts down the lantern, “What’s this all about...really?”

“You said no questions. That’s what I let you come along.” Draco lowers the leash. And Fang whimpers, sensing the tension. 

“I don’t care. What I said. I want to know. What is it. Do you not trust me?” Harry says, exasperated. 

“Would you stay with me?!!” Draco demands, after a brief, strenuous silence, “If you never got your memories back. Would you stay with me?”

“I--” Harry doesn’t know how to put his feelings into words, “Of course. I would stay with you.”

“Why would you do that?” 

“It just. It makes sense doesn’t it? You and me.” Harry explains gently, “We’ll get there again. In time.”

Draco drops to the ground, leash in hand. Putting his forehead in his other palm. 

“Those first two weeks I thought you might not come back at all. You bastard.” 

Harry gets down on his knees in front of Draco. Grabbing his hand between Harry’s two, “I really am sorry.” 

The forest is pitch black around them. The lantern resting on the ground, casting yellow flickers of light across just their faces. 

“I don’t know why. All those years ago. You gave me a chance.” Draco says softly, and his tone is different than Harry’s ever heard it, “After all that I’d done. And you wanted to be with me when I didn’t want to be with myself. I want you to remember that.”

_Oh._ Harry feels a sinking feeling in his chest. And a need. A desperate need to make things okay. Not for himself. But for Draco. 

“I will. I promise.” Harry says earnestly, grasping Draco's hands tightly, “Is that what the potion is about then? It’s so I can remember.” 

“Yeah. I know. It’s ridiculous.” Draco's trembling, Harry can see that. 

“It’s not.” Harry reaches out to caress his face, “It's not ridiculous at all. I’ll help you. I’ll fix this.”

Harry grabs the back of Draco's head and leans in to kiss him on the forehead, "I promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title quote by Richard Siken
> 
> The first place they go to look is Ilkley Moor in West Yorkshire. 
> 
> And yes I did slip a reference to my favorite football club in here. Go spurs!


	15. You have bewitched me, body and soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does it count as a first time if it technically has happened before?

It's a stroke of luck. A miracle even. After an entire night of searching (and soul searching)--they find the flowers just as dawn breaks. It raises their spirits and their confidence. And Harry feels relieved for the first time, that maybe, just maybe, he can make this right and remember again. But the victory comes with a steep cost. Neither Harry nor Draco have slept (or eaten) in hours. And as soon as they have the long sought-after morningflowers plucked and packed away they head to Hogsmeade, specifically--The Three Broomsticks--shovel down some food, get a room and fall asleep. 

It's almost seven in the evening when they come to. And Harry almost feels like he's used to it. Waking up curled next to Draco. With a mouthful of his hair caught in his mouth. 

They head down to the pub for pick-me-up drinks immediately after waking. It's that sort of day. And they deserve to celebrate.

Harry orders firewhiskey, to Draco's great surprise. And they split it, alternatively pouring out shots from the same bottle while rubbing their knees together under the table. Harry for his part cannot for the life of him concentrate on the conversation. Which, is mostly light, and more like a first date than anything. Draco talks about his favorite quidditch teams. And the fact that he speaks French. But Harry is distracted today. His thoughts keep going back to being pinned down on the moor, and Draco whispering in his ear about how he would suck him off. Every time their legs touch. Every time Draco speaks, Harry can only find himself looking at his mouth. 

By the time they get back to the bedroom. Harry feels all warm and hazy from the drink. And he has only one thing on his mind. 

"We--er. We have to talk about sex."

"Oh what for?" Draco mumbles, collapsing on the bed, "We don't fucking have any."

"It's just." Harry begins, pacing about the room unevenly, "It's weird. I keep sleeping with you. And waking up in a right state. But I don't know what you even like. And you know exactly what I like. Doesn't that seem weird to you?"

Draco sits upright, "You're completely wrong. Shouldn't it be easier on you this time. Since you know that you've done it already?"

"That's the problem." Harry groans, "I don't know what I've done. And unlike, well--the other sorts of stuff. I can't exactly ask anyone else can I? It was private, between us."

"Well. Here's an ingenious idea. You could ask me."

"Yeah. That sounds like it would be a pleasant conversation. Hey Draco, good morning, by the way did you ever stick your cock up my arse?" Harry says sarcastically. 

"I _can_ answer that." Draco points out, smirking, "Do you want me to?"

"See. This is what I mean." Harry reddens like a tomato, "If I wasn't a bit drunk right now I wouldn't even be talking about it. But you know all this really intimate stuff. About me. And I don't know anything. About any of it. And if we were to--you know--or anything. I don't want to look like an idiot."

"That's hardly a problem." Draco pulls Harry down on top of him so he's sitting across his lap, "You always look like an idiot. I can assure you. Don't expect the sex to get in the way of that."

"That's comforting."

"Please. Don't act all offended." Draco kisses his neck, then up against his chin. 

"You don't get it." Harry holds onto him, letting out a small gasp, "You know. Exactly. _Aaah._ What. To do."

" _I_ should be offended." Draco presses open mouthed kisses against his collarbone, "You don't think I would take care of you. Advantages aside."

"You never miss a chance. Normally. To tell me when I'm doing something wrong. Or smirk at me and make smug little remarks. Why should this be any different?" Harry arches his neck back as Draco sucks on it, "Aren't you going to rub it in?"

This is humiliating. Harry thinks. And he feels the color in his cheeks. And his heart is racing. And he never thought he would have this conversation while sitting on Draco's lap of all things. 

"No. Never." Draco breathes the words on Harry's neck then tilts his head down, and captures his mouth with a kiss. 

"You--oh. Could…" Harry practically speaks into Draco's mouth, kissing him back intensely. 

"Yeah?" his voice is darker, and husky.

"Could you--um. That thing you said you might do." Harry asks. 

"I thought you'd never ask." Draco laughs, "Come on. Get up."

Harry gets up off Draco's lap and stands in front of him. He watches as Draco gets down on his knees and unzips Harry's trousers, pulling them down to his ankles. Harry's already starting to get hard, just seeing him like that. Somehow both subserviant and commanding. The kind of intensity in Draco's eyes that's only ever for Harry. 

He registers Draco asking "Alright?" as he makes short work of his pants. He remembers his own quick nod. He feels Draco's eyes on his exposed member. Then the next thing he feels is Draco's warm mouth on his cock. He's sucking around just the tip for now. And the sensations of pleasure roll through him, in small, undulating waves. 

He moans as Draco takes more of him in his mouth. Licking and sucking. The white-hot passion of it almost too much. And then Draco grabs Harry's hand and puts it in his white blonde hair, leaning upward so Harry can properly fuck his mouth. The warm, wet tightness of it is sheer, pure ecstasy. And Draco is an efficient and courteous lover. Because of course he would be. The perfectionist git. Barely stopping for air, and taking him in and out, until Harry is trembling with pleasure. Adding the occasional stylistic flourish. Licking his balls with willing aplomb. 

"Draco..." Harry calls out, pulling on Draco's hair, "You're...oh...Draco…"

He bucks his hips forward, and back, and somehow Draco keeps taking it. Does that man even have a gag reflex? Harry wonders. The pressure builds up. And he feels himself getting closer. The combination of Draco's hot mouth. The look of him on his knees, hair a mess, and lips wrapped around Harry's cock. Giving in to Harry in every possible way. It's overwhelming. 

The release comes seconds later. He comes hard in Draco's mouth. Recoiling back onto the bed in case that was the wrong thing to do. A sudden wave of airy lightness goes over him. And to his surprise, Draco simply wipes off his mouth and swallows. And when he stands up, Harry can see the bulge of his cock through his trousers. _Oh_. He liked this. He liked doing this to me. For me. He got off on it. 

Harry's mind is a post-coital, post-firewhisky haze. And any tension he has is a memory. And Draco's looking at him with such fondness. 

"Sorry for. You know. In your mouth." Harry coughs. 

"S'okay." Draco sits down next to him, "I actually. Sort of like that." 

"What else. Do you like. When you do that." Harry wonders carefully.

"Let's see. Grabbing at my hair, almost till it hurts. Calling my name. Sometimes my old surname." Draco lists rather too casually. 

"Sorry?" Harry gulps, "What was that last one?"

Draco smirks, "You heard me. Don't act like you haven't called me that in your fantasies. You like it. Acting like we're still just angry teenagers fucking out of spite."

"I--I can't say that I--"

Draco interrupts him with a kiss. And Harry can taste himself on Draco's tongue. 

Draco continues to kiss him. Unbuckling his own pants and pulling out his own cock. Spitting on his hand and wrapping it around himself, moving up and down with quick, deliberate strokes.

He touches himself as he snogs Harry. And Harry grabs for Draco's jaw and kisses him harder, watching Draco's movements out of the corner of his eye. 

They fall backwards onto the bed. Lying next to each other, and clashing their mouths together. Quick, desperate kisses that match the rising tempo of Draco's hand. 

It takes longer, longer than it did for Harry, but when he comes it's all over Harry's knees. Afterward he cleans up them both with his earlier discarded wand. He lies across from Harry on the bed, just looking at him. And they're both not at all drunk anymore but a different kind of tipsy and Harry thinks his heart might explode. 

Draco intertwines their fingers together, and Harry expects him to say something sweet, loving even, but instead he smirks, "The answer is yes by the way. I have fucked you up the arse. Quite a bit."

"Um. Yeah. We could. We could work up to that."

"Still think it's weird? All this _private_ and _intimate_ stuff I know about you. And you don't know about me." Draco says mockingly, "Oh no. I'm Harry and my husband wants to have a shag. I wonder how thats going to go. Oh woe is me."

"Shut up. You were such a slut for my prick just now. If you ever want it again you'd better behave yourself."

Draco laughs. And Harry thinks it's the best thing he's ever heard. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Pride & Prejudice
> 
> Harry is confused and horny okay? Draco is just. Himself.


	16. A perfect marriage is just two imperfect people who would not give up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco find it easier to be partners, in potion work, and in all things.

Harry likes the way Draco looks when he’s working. He likes the way he tucks a quill behind his ear. He likes the reading glasses he sometimes puts on, circular like Harry’s own, to inspect particularly small reference text. He likes the intense focus in his grey eyes. And above all he likes the way he reacts to Harry. Whether it’s a small touch on his shoulder, a brush of the hand as they work, or random, just-because sort of kiss--Draco can’t help but react. Harry loves to see it. The smallest of smiles. The lightest of flush on his pale skin. The feeling of his fingers and his mouth lingering on Harry. 

They’re working together now, on the memory potion, which means that Draco takes off of work more often so he and Harry can experiment. And experiment they do. They have plenty of morningflowers, which are only needed in small quantities (being quite potent). 

The first day they spend most of their time making veritaserum, which although also quite potent, is quite tricky to make, and Draco has far less stock of it here at home than he does at work--where it is his specialty. It’s Harry who suggests that they make a day of it. And Draco teach Harry how to brew it. After all, maybe there is something to the idea that Harry’s involvement might make a difference in the result. He very quickly regrets this decision.

“No, no. Again. Do it again.” Draco vanishes the contents of the cauldron in front of Harry.

“What was wrong this time?!” Harry exclaims indignantly.

“Are you blind? At this stage the steam rising up from it should be golden. That was yellow. Canary yellow!” Draco raps his wand impatiently against his desk. 

“Trick of the light?” Harry offers. 

“Let’s try for it again shall we.” Draco glares at him, “And this time. Get it right.” 

“Alright. Alright.” Harry assembles another batch of ingredients and begins slicing and crushing away, “Maybe it would be easier if you weren’t watching me like a hawk the entire time.” 

“Oh. So it’s my fault?” Draco grabs the cutting board from Harry and begins cutting the tentactula stems much quicker and sharper than he had been, “That’s rich. Do you know how many people beg for me to give them private lessons in making this very thing? And you’d prefer if I left you alone.” 

“Thanks for that.” Harry takes back the cutting board, “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant. It’s a lot of pressure.” 

“Okay. What do you want me to do. Just stand here and not say anything?” 

“Yeah.” Harry nods, “You could do that. Don’t think you can though.” 

“What do you mean?” Draco raises an eyebrow.

“I just think it’s difficult for you to not say anything. You can’t help yourself.” 

“We’ll see about that.” Draco crosses his arms over his chest, “Go ahead. I’m not saying anything.”

Harry points his wand at the cauldron, “Aguamenti.”

Draco’s mouth twitches and Harry sighs, “Okay. What would you have said? It’s your face. Even if you don’t say anything it’s all on your face.” 

“I just--usually I cast in the water at a higher temperature. Sets everything else off more nicely.” 

“You realize this is the fifth time you’ve made me do this. And this is the first time you’ve mentioned that.” 

Draco laughs, “The other times you made a lot more rudimentary mistakes I had to point out first. This is more of a preference.”

“So you’re saying I’m getting better.” Harry suggests.

“No. I’m saying you simply aren’t getting any worse.” Draco counters. 

“That’s nice. Are you this sweet to all your lovers?” Harry continues measuring out ingredients and laying them side by side on his workstation. 

“Are you this impudent to all of your potions masters?” 

Harry considers, “Well. Yeah.”

“Now.” Harry looks down at his crushed firecrab leg, “How much of this again?”

Draco steps behind him, maneuvering Harry’s hands by grasping them with his own. His chest against Harry’s back. He takes the knife and the cutting board with the shavings and guides Harry’s hands to neatly force what looks like half of the amount into the cauldron.

“You could have just said to put in half of it.” Harry points out.

Draco is still holding on to Harry’s hand, using it to grab a wooden spoon and stirring the mixture counter clock wise, “Seven sixteenths. You needed seven sixteenths. Not half. I knew you couldn’t eye-ball it. You’ve missed it the last four times even when measuring it out.”

“Oh right. Seven sixteenths. I thought you said six seventeenths the first time.” Harry muses.

“God’s sake. Really? That’s why you messed up all these times? You misheard me? I can’t believe I chose to spend the rest of my life with you.” Draco sighs, exasperated. 

“I mean.” Harry points out jokingly, sort of enjoying Draco using him as a large puppet, since it means they’re pressed up so close, “You didn’t have to. Choose to spend the rest of your life with me.”

“No. I wanted to. I just can’t believe it.”

***

After the day spent on veritaserum, which Harry knows is to add the element of ‘truth’ into the memory restorative, they move on to experiments in the proper way to consume the morningflowers. 

“There are a few conventional ways to consume them.” Draco tells him the morning of, still in bed, “Cut. Shredded. Ground.” 

“Draco. You fell asleep talking about this. And now you’re waking up talking about this. Give it a rest. Hold on, did you dream about this?” 

“Maybe.” Draco admits, “I don’t remember my dreams.”

“You’re lucky then.” 

“Can we get back to the subject at hand?” Draco snaps.

“I’m saying this for your sake. You need to do something else for a bit. It’s not healthy.” 

“You said that last night. We snogged for about an hour and I even took the trouble of teaching you how to give head properly. And after all that. All of that! You still couldn’t stop me from going back to work! See. It doesn’t work. The only way to fix this is to finish it.” Draco says confidently.

“Do you feel like eggs? I could make us some eggs. We could go for a walk.” 

“Great idea. And after that? I suppose we could hold hands in the park. Throw bread to the ducks. Kiss in front of a fountain. Ride in a horse drawn carriage down the street. Write each other love letters.” Draco says snidely.

Harry smirks, “If that would make you happy.” 

“The only thing that would give me even the tiniest bit of happiness” Draco grabs Harry’s shirt by the collar, “Is getting. This. Potion. To. Work!” 

He grumbles much the same over breakfast, as he savors Harry’s eggs. He continues bemoaning Harry’s lack of focus as he grabs his hand as they go through the park. And they don’t see any ducks, but by the time they pass by a fountain Draco is so secretly pleased at being out and about that he deigns to give Harry a peck on the cheek.

There’s no horse-drawn carriage of course, because that would be too much for Draco to allow in the interests of romance. But as for the love letters, Harry sees the words in Draco’s eyes and the way they shine when talking to Harry. The sentences forming in the curve of his mouth when he smiles. Paragraphs in the firm way he grips Harry’s hand, almost dragging him in the direction he wants to go as they walk. And when Draco kisses him, on the stoop of their house, the center of their married life, Harry can feel a whole novel’s worth of love in it. 

***

A few days later, after slicing, dicing, cutting, shredding, grounding and doing otherwise a good deal more things than Harry thought was possible to a bunch of flowers, they discover that it’s just best to put them in whole. 

It’s Harry that does the chocolate frog card test first. Picking one from the deck. Writing it down. And applying the memory jinx before taking the latest sample of memory restorative. The person he correctly guesses is Ron. This causes Draco to question the effectiveness of the restorative, since Harry would be likely to guess Ron anyway--in his opinion. And he tries it himself. Correctly guessing--wouldn't you know it--Harry James Potter. 

“I know I’m always on your mind. But seriously?” Harry laughs. 

Draco is beaming, and he kisses Harry with such pure, unadulterated joy, running his hands in Harry’s hair and nearly knocking Harry’s wand out of his hand as he grabs at him. 

“It’s working. We’re nearly there.” Draco holds Harry’s face in his hands, “Harry. I-” 

“It’s brilliant.” Harry looks back into his eyes, so grey, a color he wouldn’t normally think of as very pretty, “You were brilliant.” 

Draco seems to light up at the praise, or maybe he’s still just thrilled that it’s finally showing signs of really, really working. So Harry kisses him again, soft, and slow, until he’s practically incandescent. 

“Timing’s alright too.” Harry says, “Few weeks from now. It’ll be our anniversary. Hermione told me.”

“It’s just a date. I’m not that particular about it.” Draco insists, but Harry knows that he’s lying. 

“Maybe you’re not.” Harry says, “But to me. Everything’s a first.”

“There’s one last thing.” Draco’s face falls, “I don’t know if you’ll be able to do it.” 

“What?”

“Tears. I need your tears to finish it.” Draco explains. 

“That shouldn’t be too hard. I’m sure a good kick in the shin. Some onions--” Harry begins.

“Onions?” Draco seems confused.

“Muggles cry when they cut onions.” Harry explains.

“As usual. You don’t understand. It’s not just any kind of tears. It has to come from the heart.” Draco says softly. 

“Hold on. How do you know that?” Harry wonders, then it dawns on him, “Alright. From the heart then.The thing is though. I don’t usually react that way. Even when I’m really hurt. I usually lash out. Or get angry. I don’t think I have since I lost Sirius. Or when I went to Godric’s Hollow for the first time and saw my parents' graves.” 

“It’s not really easy for me to say this. So I’d appreciate it if it didn’t go any further than this room. If you can manage that.” Draco clears his throat. 

“Yeah. Of course. What is it?” 

“I think you know. Or. You saw. I tend to react  _ that  _ way. When I’m under a lot of pressure. Sixth year--”

“In Myrtle’s bathroom. You were crying. When I--” Harry nods.

“Yes. When you violently attacked me.” 

“Sorry.” Harry says quickly, “I did sort of know that. I’ve seen you. Your eyes get all red and--”

“I think this is humiliating enough as it is without your descriptions of me.” 

“You brought it up!” 

“I only brought it up.” Draco explains, “Because I thought it might help. Your emotions are wired to make you an insufferable hot-head. Mine aren’t.”

“But we can’t use  _ your  _ tears.” 

“You could cast into my mind. With  _ legilimens.  _ And I could think about something. A time when I’ve...And then you’d feel it by proxy. You’d react.”

“You would have to let me in. Aren’t you an  _ occlumens _ . You can block your mind. And isn’t it sort of dark to cast into someone’s mind? Invasive. I mean. Voldermort used to use it.” 

“Obviously, Harry. Voldemort could whistle hot-cross-buns and it would probably be dark. That’s just who he was.” Draco continues, not meeting Harry’s eyes, “It wouldn’t be like that with us.”

“Why not?”

Draco gives him a pointed look.

Harry nods. Because of what they are. Who they are. To each other. Draco would open for him. Would let him in. Freely. Readily. Into the darkest, most intimate, most painful corners of his mind. 

“Still.” Harry says, “I’m not going to let you just offer yourself up to relive your worst memories in front of me. That’s sick.” 

“We don’t have much of a choice!” Draco exclaims, “I’m not exactly thrilled about it either.”

“How do you know it would even work?” Harry counters again.

“I just do.” 

“How? How do you know?”

“Because you get close. When we used to talk about it. Once or twice. Over the years. Not a regular thing mind you--me spilling my guts to you. You were--moved.” Draco explains. 

"Oh."

"We can try it now. If you want." Draco looks nervous. 

"No. Not now. Let's not ruin today. We could talk about it though. I don't know how it'll work exactly. Are you going to just think of the feeling. And let me sort of. Explore. Or are you going to think about something specific." 

"I'll try a bit of both."

"And how do you want to do this?" Harry asks suddenly, "Right here. Standing up. Or in bed or something."

Draco laughs, "Always the same aren't you? You asked me that once before. The first time we…"

"What did you say then?"

"I'm not going to tell you!" 

"It was the bed. You like to be comfortable." Harry guesses. 

"Too easy. Anything else? Or are you going to quit while you're ahead? Anything more and you're making me question the need for a memory restorative at all." 

"You fucked me. But I was on top." Harry reasons, "It hurt at first. And. It was in our bedroom before it was our bedroom. Before you moved in."

Draco is speechless, "That's not. It was a sunday. You didn't figure that one out. And you told me you  _ loved _ me after. So ha."

"If I did. It wasn't the first time I'd said it." Harry smirks, "So there. Tell me something I could never guess. Something I'm missing that really honestly matters. There's nothing. I dare you."

Draco deliberates for several seconds, then looks Harry directly in the eyes, speaking calmly but clearly, "Yeah? I said it back."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't properly source the chapter title quote as its frequently copied about. Either Kate Stewart or Dave Willis.
> 
> Thinking about an anniversary chapter up ahead sometime! Might be a good chance to invite some friends and family at last.


	17. Draco's Worst Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco lets Harry look into his mind.

"You did?" Harry asks, floored that Draco would admit, point blank, to having said the words _I love you_. 

"It's not _impossible_ for me." Draco shrugs, "It just doesn't need repeating all the time. It's why people don't go around shouting the alphabet. Or times tables. It's sort of just a known commodity."

"No it's not?! I mean. I always thought it was just this thing. That we both knew but was unsaid. Like how people say you-know-who." Harry explains, flabbergasted. 

"I'm sorry, maybe I should have been more clear for you. Since _this_ ," Draco rolls his eyes, and points at his wedding ring, "And _this_ ." He gestures at their shared bedroom, and then at their bed, "And _all of this_ we get up to. Didn't clarify that for you. I love you, Harry. I really, truly, do."

Harry's stomach does an excited little backflip, "I--"

"What do you expect? Maybe I should start saying it all the time. Completely out of context. Harry, I'll be working late. By the way. I love you. I'd like some eggs. Did I mention that I love you? Come to bed. I love you. Hey Hermione, do come in. You know I love Harry oh-so-much don't you? Harry I'd love to suck your cock. But don't lose sight of the fact that I love you. Harry, hurry up we're getting late. Have I told you lately, I love you." 

Harry is a little stunned by how many times Draco just said it, and wildly pleased about it at the same time, "Okay. That seems a little silly when you put it like that." 

"Glad you can see reason. I'm starving. Come on." he grabs Harry by the arm and pulls him out the door. 

***

A day later. Harry is sitting across from him in bed. Wand in hand. It's evening time. The room is quite dark. And all in all, it’s a very ordinary day. Draco has spent hundreds of evenings just like this with Harry. In this very room. 

This is where they've had a majority of their quarrels. The real ones. Where harsh words had been exchanged that cut deep to the bone. 

This is where they've had their most mundane conversations, about the neighbors, and colleagues at work, and all the things you would expect a couple to discuss right before they turn in. Draco not-so-secretly loves it. He had such a hard time once, getting Harry's attention, and often had got it for all the wrong reasons. But now Harry belongs to him. And the last half hour of his day is meant to be spent listening to Draco's inconsequential daily problems, and no one else's. 

This is where they've had sunday morning sex, just-because sex, oh-god-you're-infuriating sex, and if-I-have-any-more-feelings-about-you-ill-explode sex.

This is also where Harry proposed, though he doesn't remember doing it. Draco, however, he remembers it exactly. 

When he thinks about it, the dinner beforehand should have tipped him off. Kreacher taking the night off. The wine. Harry's shirt. Slightly more formal than usual. Pale green that sets off his eyes. But Draco didn't expect it. Never expected something like that. He had moved in about a year ago. With no set expectation of the permanence of the arrangement. 

When Harry had ushered him to their bedroom and told him he had something important to say, his first instinct was that perhaps they were breaking up. His chest had tightened up. And he had felt so cold and hollow inside for a moment. He had stopped listening until he heard Harry say…"I know it's not really your style. And we don't have to. I just wanted to let you know that's how I think of you. Bit more than just a boyfriend. I've known for a while. I think. And... since I think you feel the same way..."

" _You_ want to _marry_ me?!" he had sputtered. 

"Look. I know how you feel. And that it isn't easy for you to say it. And I knew it was a bit of a pipe dream. Expecting you to go and say it in front of all these people. I just wanted you to know that I do. I want to marry you."

The words echo in Draco's head now. _I want to marry you_. It's been years. But he still cherishes the memory. Contrasts it with the same voice in the past months asking ' _Why would I want to marry you?'_ _'How could I marry you?'_ Draco wishes he could go back in time and ask the Harry who proposed exactly that. 

But he's still here, Draco corrects himself. Harry is still here with him. And they're still married. And Draco made a promise all those years ago. In sickness and in health. For richer or for poorer. Till death do us part. And he intends to keep it. That's why he will let Harry into his own mind, siphon off of his emotions so that he can collect his tears. Once they have the tears, the potion will be complete. And everything will be as it was. And Harry will go back to understanding him better than he understands himself, rather than the other way around. 

"You don't have to do this you know." Harry says, kindly, because when things are serious, Harry is always kind.

"You know that I have to. You know why." Draco brushes him off.

He wouldn't admit it, since Harry's against this already, invading his mind, but he is scared. Once he puts down his mental guards he cannot bring them back up again. Harry could go wherever he likes. See and hear anything that Draco's ever seen or heard or felt. Or done. What would he think? Especially now, when he doesn't remember quite what he feels for Draco. The depth of what he feels. 

"If you're ready." Harry grabs one Draco's hand in his own. 

"Let's get this over with. And don't forget. The vial. Or this was all for nothing." Draco grips his hand back tight. 

Harry raises his wand arm but Draco pushes it aside with his free one, "Do it wandless. I know that you can."

Harry puts his wand to the side. And grasps both of Draco's hands. He gives them a reassuring squeeze that seems to say _trust me_ . Draco closes his eyes. So as to reply: _I do._

He feels it before Harry says it, "Legilimens."

***

Harry has wondered about the inside of Draco's head since he was eleven years old. Why does he act like that? What on earth is he up to? Why is he so arrogant and posh? Why does he take so much trouble to be petty and mean? And then…in later years...other things too. Harry has wondered them late at night. In quiet. In secret. Why is he doing all this, really? Why did he become a death eater? How could he cross that line? And last. Something he wondered that he wished he wouldn't. I'm thinking about him so much...I wonder if he ever thinks about me? 

Their hands are clasped together. Draco's hands are clammy and rather cold in his. He was asked to perform the charm wandless. So he will. He does. 

The inside of Draco's mind is grey and nebulous. Much like his eyes. Harry sees the real world recede in his mind's eye. And only peers deeper into the cloud of Draco's memory. Which gradually forms into a moving image. 

Draco and his father. They're in a sort of sitting room. He can't be older than six. 

"Recite the sacred twenty-eight."

Draco does. His voice is soft and smooth. And when Lucius nods in approval and says, "Very well done." he appears relieved. 

"These families form the cornerstone of wizarding heritage and culture. You must do well by them. In any connection or friendship you wish to pursue, you must keep in mind your status. Why is that Draco?"

"Sir?"

"I asked you a question. I very well expect an answer."

"I suppose. Because you don't want to be getting mixed up with the wrong sort."

The statement feels familiar to Harry. But he can't seem to place why it's a particularly sad memory for Draco. He also doesn't know why it's the first one that appears. Is Draco actively thinking of it? Or is it just something his mind associates naturally with sadness? Or did Harry somehow gravitate towards it?

But then the memory transforms into another. Harry sees himself. Eleven years old. 

"I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself thanks." Child-harry says, not taking Draco's outstretched hand. 

And in the present Harry instantly feels a wave of disappointment. Embarrassment. He hears eleven-year old Draco's voice in his head. _Good riddance anyway. I don't even want to be his friend._

Then they're back at Malfoy manor. Harry remembers this Malfoy. Second year or third, he guesses. 

He's scribbling furiously on some parchment while his father looks on. 

"How does she beat you? With all the years I've devoted to teaching you. Giving you every possible advantage." Lucius asks imperiously. 

"Lucius, please. He's doing the best he can." Draco's mother pleads. 

"He can do better. He _must_ do better."

"But father." 

"What was her mark in Potions last year?" Lucius asks. 

"Granger only missed one point. But I did better than that Potter! And just about everyone else. And Potter didn't even--"

"Enough, Draco. I didn't bring you up to be second best. Mediocre."

"Like you." Draco mumbles. 

Harry can't tell if Lucius did it with his wand or just with a push. He watches as the chair hits the ground with a crack. And Draco falls out of it, backwards, onto his back. Hard. Onto the stone floor. He watches as Lucius leans down and grabs him by the scruff of his neck.

"Don't try that sort of insolence with me." 

Narcissa weeps in the background. 

Lucius has stood. And watches Draco. Frozen. On the ground. Almost in a state of shock. He's whimpering. And Harry feels a surge of anger just watching it. 

"Come now. Get back to it. Later we can go out and pick up that new broomstick you wanted."

Draco just nods. And does it. _I'm sorry, father_ . He hears Draco's voice in his head. _I'll do better. They're nothing. I am better. I'll prove it._

Harry is starting to feel it already. A kind of mix of guilt. And sorrow. A tightening in his chest cavity. And he feels, so, so strongly for Draco. In a way that he never has. He always assumed things had been easy for Draco. But they hadn't. Not really. Things weren't that black and white. 

The next memory is darker. And with every step he takes Harry feels like he's going deeper in Draco's mind. 

Draco is a small child. Maybe five? In the arms of a crazed looking black haired woman that can only be Bellatrix. But smoother. Prettier than Harry remembers her. 

He's sitting in her lap. Grabbing at her hair. They're in the garden. On the grounds of Malfoy Manor. 

Harry watches as she conjurs a pretty white mouse out of her wand and lets him play with it. 

Draco laughs and smiles, petting the mouse gingerly, "Could I keep him? He's so soft." 

"Draco. Pay close attention now." Bellatrix tells him. 

"Yes, Aunt Bella."

She smiles rather wickedly and flicks her wand, "Imperio."

Doing so, she makes the mouse dance in the palm of Draco's hand. Draco smiles. But then seems perturbed just looking at it. 

"Make it stop." He says quietly, "I don't think it wants to dance."

"It doesn't matter what it wants. It's just a mouse. See, look. He'll even bite his own tail. Silly thing." 

Draco watches in horror as the mouse struggles to not bite itself, just shaking his head. 

"Bella." Narcissa says sternly, appearing behind them, and taking Draco, leaving the mouse to Bellatrix, "He's frightened."

"We were just having a little fun." Bellatrix sighs, "He has to learn to be less soft-hearted. When the new order comes he will need to take his place."

"There will be time for that. He's just a boy." Narcissa guides him back inside the house.

But not fast enough. Because as Narcissa's back is turned both little Draco and Harry glance around to take a last look at Bellatrix and the mouse. And see the flash of green light hit him. And the mouse lays limp. Dead. 

He sees little Draco cry buckets and buckets after that. And Bellatrix shrugs, having vanished the poor creature away, and Narcissa can't figure out why Draco is so upset. _He was my friend._ He hears a small, high pitched voice in his head. _He was my friend._

Harry is close now. Frozen still in horror and a kind of shared pain. It's too much for a child to see all that. And it reminds him too much of his own memories of the killing curse. And of his parents. He could cry. He feels the first drop flow down his face, and he touches base with reality long enough to collect it. But what he feels more is anger. Anger at Bellatrix. An anger that hasn't the least bit subsided since her death. 

In the present day, Draco has a death grip on Harry's hand. He's scooted closer. About a quarter inch away from Harry's face. 

The next memory is almost black. Harry could place that high, cold voice anywhere.

"It is a great honor, Lucius." Voldemort gestures for Draco to come forward, "For one so young to be permitted to join our ranks. And to be provided with so crucial a mission."

"Yes, my lord. A great--great honor." Lucius gulps. 

"He must not fail." Voldemort glances towards Narcissa and back towards Draco. 

"I won't fail you." Draco's voice is hollow, almost empty, but firm. 

There's an audience. Crabbe and Goyle senior. Bellatrix, of course. Yaxley. And others. Some have knowing looks, and seem almost smug. Others nervous, wondering perhaps if their children are next.

Harry is surprised to note then that he's never actually seen it. What it looks like when someone takes the dark mark. 

Draco kneels in front of Voldemort and rolls up his sleeve. He looks resigned. Almost passive. When Voldemort presses his wand into Draco's skin it begins pulsing, and throbbing. Ribbons of black spreading from a central point. Spreading into Draco's skin like an infection. 

Draco gasps in pain and several of the audience laugh. 

"Take it like a man." One smirks. 

"This is what it takes to be one of us. Maybe he doesn't have it in him." Another mumbles. 

Draco gets up and turns away as soon as he can. After Voldemort is done with him. There are tears in his eyes and he doesn't want anyone else to see them. He looks at his own arm as if he's been burned.

"Draco." His father puts a hand on his shoulder, "You...you did well."

"Don't talk to me." Draco brushes him off. 

Harry watches as he climbs the stairs. And enters a room. His childhood room. Which Harry realises he has never seen before. 

There's a newspaper article on Draco's desk. Where Harry is on the front page. 

"I hate you." Draco says to the photograph of Harry, then traces the mark on his own arm. 

He takes out a stack of photographs from his desk drawer. Of him and his friends. The slytherins. Of him and his parents. 

"Incendio." He casts. _I won't have time for you anymore._ He spends some more time like that. Just destroying things that matter to him around his room. Throwing books at the wall and ripping up his own notes and plans and letters to people he likes. 

Then he picks up the newspaper with Harry's face on it. And just sits on his bed and stares at it. And when he finally starts to weep the tears fall right onto Harry--photo Harry. And he hears Draco's voice. _I don't want this. I can't. I don't want this. I'm not sure I can. And they'll be watching. Potter will be watching too. And I don't want to be alive. It's never going to come off. It's never ever going to come off. I'm marked forever. I'm his forever. But I have to. Or they'll hurt her. Mother. Mother. Mother._

Harry's never seen him like this. Not even that day in the bathroom. He's completely undone. Unhinged. Rocking back and forth and crying. Crying so hard he runs out of tears. And is eventually just doing the motions of crying without actually doing it. 

Draco digs his nails into the dark mark, trying to get it off of him. He nearly burns his arm trying to cast it off of him. But it just throbs and moves and mocks him. 

_He'll never want me now._ Harry hears Draco's voice. _Won't stand the sight of me. I can't stand the sight of me anymore._

At this point Harry falls backward out of Draco's mind and back into reality. Draco is sweating like crazy. Looking tired. So tired. And old, just for a moment? He's way too young to look that old. 

Harry realises suddenly that his face is wet. And his small vial is a quarter full. Which is more than enough. He must have been so deep in the memory, he didn't even realise it he was crying too. He wonders if it was Draco who held the vial precisely under Harry's eye and tilted his head so the tears would fall in. He hadn't noticed anything. Felt or seen anything, practically, besides the way Draco had felt. That day. And all those days. He doesn't know what to say. What can a person say. After having seen all that. Everything he could say seems like it would be too little. He wants to hold him? To touch him? But that might be too much. 

Draco is just staring back at him. All wide grey eyes. Looking exactly as you might expect someone to look after just utterly and completely bearing their soul. He doesn't even reach out to put a stopper in the vial. 

He hasn't let go of Harry's hands. If he grips them any tighter, Harry thinks his blood might stop circulating. Which is fine. Anything Draco wants right now would be fine.

Harry's never actually seen Draco speechless for this long. And he wonders if Draco was seeing exactly what Harry was seeing. Going wherever Harry chose to explore and go. Clearly, it seems, he was. 

Harry lets go of his hands slowly, lies back on the bed and gently maneuvers Draco on top of him. So his head rests on Harry's chest. His arm across it. They just rest like that for a bit. And it's completely silent. The vial stoppered, and set aside on the bedside table and temporarily forgotten. Harry's mind swimming with all that he just saw. There's so much he wants to ask. But he won't. It's already been too much for Draco, for one day. 

He gently strokes Draco's hair, and wonders how he could have ever thought him unfeeling. Or just plain bad. He felt so much. He always feels so much, Harry realises. And he gets it. It's never been that simple. What Draco has to do. He loves his father and he hates him. He loves who he is and he hates it. And he's never quite felt good enough, and acts out because of it. 

"I'd appreciate it." Draco says after what feels like years, "If we didn't talk about it."

"Yeah." Harry nods, "Whatever you need."

More silence. 

"You could talk about something else of course. If you want. You should." Draco amends.

"Oh. Right. Yeah. Of course." Harry tries to think of trivial and mundane things to talk about, but all he can think of is what he saw, and _I love you. I would do anything for you. Do you know that?_

He settles for, "Do you have a favourite colour?"

"Is that the best you can do? If I had to pick. Green." 

"Of course." Harry smiles, "Slytherin green."

"Not because of that."

"Then what?" Harry wonders. 

"If you can't figure it out, you really are an idiot." Draco snuggles closer to Harry. 

_What else is green? Grass. Trees. Draco doesn't really like nature, though. My eyes are green_ . Harry remembers. And flushes pink. _Oh. That's...sweet._

"I feel sort of shit now though." Harry admits, "My favourite colour isn't grey."

"It's fine. I'll try not to take it personally."

"Are you alright?" Harry asks. 

"Of course I'm alright. Just because your favourite colour isn't as stupidly sentimental as mine. Who do you think I am exactly?"

"No. I meant. Are you alright? After all that." 

Draco looks up at him, "I said I don't want to talk about it."

"I don't want to talk about what I saw. I just want to know if you're alright."

"Yeah." Draco nods, "Fine. I'm with you aren't I? You'll protect me...I mean...since you're the great _saviour_ of the wizarding world...is what I meant to say...Why wouldn't I be?"

"Yeah." Harry says softly, and for a moment--it's enough, "You're with me." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some mixed POV! Whose point of view is more fun to read? 
> 
> Took a bit of creative license with legilimens. So Harry can hear his thoughts a little as well as 'see' the memory.
> 
> Also I am aware that Bellatrix was in Azkaban during Draco's childhood but...just allow it okay? It's a slight canon-divergence :)


	18. I have loved none but you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry asks Draco out on a date.

Draco doesn’t want to try the potion right away. Because this is the last chance he has. To get Harry back. The Harry that loves him unconditionally, and tore all of his walls down all those years ago. And if it doesn’t work, he doesn’t know, isn’t sure that lightning could strike twice. Harry loving him seemed so impossible the first time. How could things end up the same way again? 

Despite the fact that even now, Harry has promised not to go. To stay by his side. To help him. There’s a small part of him that doubts it. Because of course Harry would stay. Harry is a damned hero. Self-sacrificing idiot. Always putting others before himself. But Draco still doesn’t know if Harry loves him the way he did before. When it didn’t make sense to love someone like him. When Harry did so anyway, persistently, and continually, and annoyingly, until Draco was actually comfortable with being loved without any expectations. 

So when Harry brews the potion to completion, Draco stops him from drinking it immediately, “Wait.”

“Wait for what?!” Harry asks, caught off guard, a vial of potion halfway to his mouth already. 

“Uhhh...Maybe it has to be done. On a specific day. A meaningful day. Some potions are like that.” Draco lies. 

Harry looks at him all circumspect, “Okay. I’ve never heard of that before. But if you’re alright with waiting. Er. What day would be meaningful?”

Draco thinks fast, for a date that’s both meaningful and far enough away that it will give him time to emotionally prepare for this not to work, “The anniversary. Wait until then. I insist.” 

“That’s three weeks from now.” Harry points out, “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.” Draco says defiantly, “I know what I’m doing.” 

“Three weeks then.” Harry extends his hand.

“What are you doing?” Draco looks at it. 

Harry blushes, “I dunno. Sort of felt like the thing to do. Shake on it.” 

Draco grabs on to his hand and shakes it, “Three weeks.”

“Don’t worry you know.” Harry says kindly, “It’s going to work. I know it will.”

“I’m not worried.” Draco says quickly. 

“Will you be going back to work now?” Harry asks.

“Yeah. One of us has to. You’ve been missing in action at the auror office for months now.” Draco explains.

“Oh. I’ll um...miss you, then.” Harry looks at him fondly, and for a moment he really isn’t worried.

“Don’t be so dramatic. I’ll be home in the evenings. And we’ll be together at night. And I’m sure you’ll find some way to bother me while I’m getting ready in the morning.” 

Harry smiles at him, "That's alright with me then. I was wondering. Er. I know it's sort of last minute but do you want to get dinner with me tonight?"

Draco looks at him blankly, "We have dinner every night. Are you forgetting more things now?!"

"Not like that. I mean. A date. Not in the house." Harry explains. 

"If you want to get me into bed you don't _need_ to buy me dinner first, you know. We're married. I'm a sure thing." 

"I just want to go out with you. What's wrong with that? You know I never got to be your boyfriend. Well. I did. But I don't remember what it was like." Harry sighs. 

"You're unbelievable." Draco starts to laugh, "Oh...this is too good. Harry are you actually upset that you don't remember _that_ part…"

"Hey! It's reasonable. I never got to flirt with you. Or get to know you. I sort of just woke up and we were married." Harry snaps indignantly. 

"Right." Draco puts on an expression of mock seriousness, "If that's what you want. Flirt with me."

"I can't just do it on command. I'd have to build up to it." 

"Whatever you say, sweetheart."

***

They meet at the foot of the stairs at exactly seven. 

Harry has several choice lines mentally prepared--flattering, witty ones, but the second he lays eyes on his date all he can say is, "Your shirt. It's nice."

Because Harry didn't know he had this weakness until right this moment. A weakness for seeing Draco in pure white creaseless shirts. Perfectly tailored along his form. Making him look more long and lean than ever. And his hair is all freshly washed and soft and wispy and he smells so minty and clean. It's the kind of perfection that Harry desperately wants to violate. And he tells him so. 

"You look perfect." Harry blurts out. 

"Thanks. You look...the same as you did this morning. But you've looked worse." Draco comments drily, but slightly flushed at the compliment. 

They walk to the restaurant. And Draco is quiet. So Harry tries for small talk with him. The kind you would make with someone you were on a first date with. And not with your husband of several years whom you don't remember marrying. 

"Nice night. Good air." Harry coughs, why is he so bad at this?

"It's tolerable." Draco agrees. 

"I think Puddlemere United has had a good year. Um. Do you?" Harry asks. 

"Yes." Draco says simply. 

This is hard. This is so very hard. Harry wonders fervently how he managed it once before. Without silver rings on their fingers and sleeping in the same bed in the same house. 

He could ask Draco about his home life. Even though he's recently seen snippets of it via his memories. Or about school? 

"What's your favorite subject? At school, I mean." 

"Potions." Draco snorts, "Sort of obvious."

"Okay. Um. What's your relationship like with your mother?"

"Good. We were close. She understood what I liked. And was okay with what I didn't like. Of course she still went along with what my father wanted. All the pure blood mania on her family's side." Draco slips his hand into Harry's as they walk. 

"That's really great. I mean. That she understood you. Not so much. The other thing. Uh...I know I've probably already told you this. But. Aunt Petunia never really. Well she wasn't a mother to me at all."

"Jealous bitch." Draco mutters. 

"What about your father?"

Draco freezes for a second, "I know you saw. He wasn't all bad though. I'm telling you."

"He shouldn't have been so hard on you." Harry says softly, "I know what that's like. When the people you see as your parents don't think you fit into the mold of who they'd like you to be. It's awful."

Draco squeezes his hand. 

"I thought this was just two blokes on a date. Not a heart to heart between. Whatever we are." Draco cuts in, "Come on. I want to see what you can do. Try to get in my pants."

"I think. I think you look really sexy tonight. In those clothes." Harry tells him.

"Yeah? If you like me with these clothes you're going to love me without them." Draco says, and actually winks at him. 

He's too good. Harry internally fumes. 

"Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?" Harry asks. 

"Please. You and I both know I crawled my way up from hell."

"Right. What do you say to this?" Harry stops walking to stand up into Draco's personal space, "Say. Haven't I seen you somewhere before? It’s hard to forget a face like that."

"In your dreams more than likely." Draco laughs, and pauses, "You know what the sad thing is?"

"What?" Harry says glumly. 

"If this _was_ a first date. Even after your feeble attempts at flirting. I'd probably still fancy you." Draco admits. 

"Really?" Harry perks up. 

"I can't help it. I like your stupid hair and complete lack of impulse control. The way you mess things up when you try too hard and just get things right when you aren’t trying at all."

“I still can’t believe that you _like_ me.” Harry says, “I mean. After everything that I’ve put you through.” 

“Yeah. You’re such a tosser. I should have filed for divorce ages ago.” Draco smiles then notices the expression on Harry’s face, “Lighten up. I’m only joking. I never did think we’d have a _completely_ normal life together. You being you.” 

“But I did, though.” Harry insists, “After the war ended. I did want to be normal. For once.”

“I know. I tried to give that to you. These past couple years. I even wanted you to quit the aurors and do something less heroic. But you don’t listen to me do you! Stubborn arsehole.” 

“You...tried to make our lives normal?” Harry wonders.

“Well yeah. Not just for _you_ by the way. I really didn’t want too much excitement either. But. It sort of just happened. You obviously wanted to be a real family with someone. So we fixed up the house. We had an actual, proper wedding. I took your name. We have a mostly regular routine. We read together or play quidditch after work. And we meet up with your friends or my friends when we can. And that’s sort of it. Isn’t it? There’s no hidden plots or secrets, or people trying to do you in. It’s easy. It was easy.” Draco rants. 

“I always thought you wouldn’t want that kind of life.” Harry responds after a long silence, “At school you always wanted to stand out. Or be special or something.”

“Yeah that worked out well for me didn’t it?” Draco rubs his arm, right over the sleeve that covers the dark mark. 

“I guess. Sometimes it isn’t about what you want. But what you need.” Harry muses, “I didn’t know I needed this. Living with Ron and Hermione feels like family too. But not like this. With you.”

Harry likes thinking of them this way. More than friends. More than lovers. A small family, him and his ex-enemy. It’s what he sees in the Mirror of Erised after all, his parents of course--but the lost family they represent. He’s always wanted that. Having someone who cares for him so much that no matter what he does, even forgetting them entirely, they won’t stop. He never thought, all those years ago that this person could be Draco. Draco, who was so spiteful, arrogant, selfish, and spoiled. He’s still a bit arrogant, that’s never going to change. But he’s been so warm. Rather selfless in his care for Harry. And he loves, so fiercely and so forcefully that Harry can’t believe he never saw it in him before. 

They’re at the restaurant now. And Draco holds the door open for him, and raises his hand as if to say ‘after you’. And he has to stop himself from ordering for both of them, because he remembers what Harry likes here even though Harry does not.

“Did we used to come here often?” Harry asks, between bites of pad thai. 

“Yeah. It’s nearby.”

“Can I ask you something odd?” Harry looks at him sheepishly. 

“You don’t usually ask permission.” 

Harry takes that as a yes, “Have you ever brought anyone else here?”

“No. Why would I? It’s out of the way for anyone but us.” Draco looks confused.

“Oh. So I’m the only one.” 

“Is this an attempt to ask me about my romantic history?” Draco asks.

“Well you know mine. It’s only fair.”

“There isn’t that much to tell.” Draco admits.

“You took Pansy to the Yule Ball.” 

“As a friend.” Draco clarifies, “I never did anything with her. Well, I did try to kiss her at the end of that night. And that ended badly.”

“There must have been someone else.”

“I may have drunkenly snogged Daphne Greengrass. She was in our year. Maybe you remember.”

“Sort of. Um. So you never had a girlfriend?”

“No.” Draco answers quietly.

“What about boys. Did you fancy any?”

“Just the one.”

“Who?” Harry pauses, “Oh.”

“There was never any time for all that!” Draco snaps, “And after the war. Well then no one wanted anything to do with me. For obvious reasons.”

_Except me_. Harry realizes. 

“How did I get to you back then? It clearly wasn’t my flirting.” Harry chuckles.

“You’re particularly bad at leaving things well enough alone. And you’re pig-headed. And you don’t listen when someone tells you they don’t want your kindness.” Draco answers.

“I’m not that kind.” Harry puts his fork aside, and places his hand on Draco’s, “I’m actually quite selfish.”

A chill goes down Draco’s spine, “You are?”

Harry leans a bit closer to him, and Draco can see the restaurant lights gleaming in his green eyes. His mess of dark hair. 

“I probably just wanted you for myself.” Harry whispers, and for a second Draco forgets that they’re in a public place, and it’s not just the two of them in a vast empty universe. 

“I--you--” Draco stammers.

Harry leans back and signals to the server that they’d like the check, “Easy there, pretty boy.”

_Pretty boy?_ Draco’s mind grinds to a halt. Since when has he been ‘pretty boy’? Since when is that something Harry says? And they’re in a public place, and he hasn’t blushed like this in front of Harry in years. 

Harry looks like he’s won a victory. Maybe he isn’t as bad at flirting as he thought he was. Clearly he just needs to catch his husband off guard. _His husband_. That’s the first time, Harry notices, that he’s thought of Draco like that. Just to himself. Without making a big deal of it.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous.” Harry smirks as they walk out together.

“Stop it. I’m warning you.” 

“Not so cocky now are you?” Harry shoves him up against a wall. 

“What’s gotten into you? People could see us.”

“So you like it when I’m a bit aggressive with you. But you also like to be the one fucking me. How does that work?” Harry wonders as he feels him up.

“They’re unrelated things. And we don’t always do it just the one way. Could you unhand me please? Fuck, Harry.” He moans as Harry kisses his neck. 

“Alright, come on.” Harry lets him go and starts walking in the direction of Grimmauld place, and watches as Draco grumpily follows. 

“Are you happy now? With that teenage display?” Draco scratches at the back of his neck, “Or do you want to go again?” 

“You know I am mentally eighteen. I don’t have seven years of maturity and wisdom. Which you so _clearly_ do.”

“I guess that explains why you’re always horny and confused.” 

“That’s no way to talk to your own husband.” Harry laughs.

“Oh so now I’m your husband. I thought this whole date was so you could try and be my boyfriend because you missed out on that part of it. I’m not going to be your husband when it suits you.”

“What’s that American song? Something something. If you like it then you should put a ring on it.” Harry tries to think of the right words, “Something like that. I’ve decided I like it after all.”

“Fine.” Draco nods, “Just don’t call me _pretty boy_ again. Not in public.”

“So in private--”

“Shut up.” 

They bicker a bit more, finding themselves linking hands again in the process--which somehow they always do. And within a few minutes they’re back on the steps to Grimmauld place. 

“This is it then.” Harry looks at Draco.

“Well now I’m lost. Am I your boyfriend, your date, or your husband? Either way, we both live here so it’s not like--”

“Just kiss me goodnight. Draco. I had a lovely time.” Harry uses his name softly, reverently.

There’s barely any light where they’re standing. The sun set hours ago. But Draco’s hair is still so light that it almost glows. And he looks so pale and perfect, with his white shirt, and grey eyes. He reminds Harry of a veela. 

Draco presses his mouth softly to Harry’s. He kisses him tenderly. Sweet and slow. And Harry leans into him. Curves towards him as if pulled by some mysterious gravity. His mouth is warm. And his skin is soft. And Harry loves him, he's sure of it. 

It’s quiet when they break apart, no one else is out on the street except them. 

Draco reaches out to tuck a bit of Harry’s hair behind his ear and tells him, in the soft voice that’s only ever been for Harry, “About what you asked before. At the restaurant. I really haven’t...been in love with...with anyone except you. So don’t feel bad about it. The fact that I know you better and I know what you like. Because you’re the one who showed me how it could be back then. How we could be. It’s nice for me, in a way. I suppose I get to return the favor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Jane Austen, 'Persuasion'


	19. Heart & Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domesticity + Draco teaches Harry a simple duet on the piano.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco's piano songs, in case you want to listen along, in order:
> 
> Songs Without Words in A Minor No.2 Opus 19. Book 1, --Mendelssohn  
> Fields of Gold, instrumental --Sting  
> Heart & Soul --Frank Loesser and Hoagy Carmichael

They wake up together. Draco before Harry, since he’s the only one who has to be somewhere by a particular time. Sometimes Harry barely notices him go. Just opening his eyes slightly at the sound of the closing door and Draco’s footsteps on the stairs. Other times he’s lightly shaken awake as Draco pulls himself out of Harry’s sleepy embrace. He always looks a bit sorry to go. 

More rarely, Harry’s wide awake, and he sits up slightly to watch Draco, returning from the shower with a green towel around his waist. He’s wearing absolutely nothing else. Droplets of water running down his face, and his bare back. And when he comes in, he’s practically brought in the steam with him, because of course Draco showers only in water that’s piping hot.

Harry likes the way Draco’s hair looks when it’s wet, shorter and flatter than usual. It makes him look younger. For some reason. And of course he likes all that skin showing. And when Draco drops the towel so he can get dressed, completely nonchalant about being totally on display, well, Harry doesn’t mind that either. 

It’s so interesting. Making light conversation about nothing at all. Watching him get dressed. He always does everything in the same order. Shirt. Trousers. Left arm or left leg first. And the clothes are always crisp and wrinkle free. Harry tries to imagine him doing this with his Hogwarts uniform. Finishing with a green slytherin tie. He wonders why he’s so rigid and orderly about things like this. And considers that maybe Draco knows--or learned the hard way--that there are honestly so few things in life over which you can have control, and with those things, control must be absolute. 

Right before Draco leaves, if Harry’s awake, he usually catches him shoot a drying spell at his own hair. It looks as if a blast of wind is coming out of his wand, and then all of that white blonde hair is left dry and poofy. But that won’t do of course. So he spends the next few minutes meticulously putting product in it so it sits just right. He inspects it in the mirror that hangs on the back of the door. And if he catches Harry looking at him, his face turns slightly pink and he speeds up what he’s doing. Which Harry doesn’t understand at all. Draco wasn’t at all embarrassed being naked in front of him, so how is this more intimate than that?

But it certainly is the oddest and smallest things that feel the most intimate to Harry. It's the rare times when it’s Draco who’s twisting and turning, waking up in a cold sweat from a nightmare. Harry doesn’t ask what it’s about, because he knows that doesn’t help. And instead they just talk in whispers. Harry telling Draco stories and facts that he probably already knows. Draco alternatively making wise cracks and rolling his eyes. Until the dream is forgotten.

It’s at these times, in the dead of night, the witching hour as some call it, that the world just seems so small. What could be beyond these four walls? Beyond him and Draco, huddled together under the sheets. Beyond their little world. 

It's the way he feels when Draco catches him humming along to Celestina Warbeck on the radio. He remembers being incredibly surprised when he's unceremoniously pulled to his feet. And Draco's actually dancing with him. If what they're doing could even have been called dancing. Completely ridiculous.They were in their pajamas. Neither of them were very good at it. It wasn't even the sort of thing he had expected Draco to do. And yet here they were doing it.

Draco had smirked at him and said nothing except "If you swoon I won't catch you." 

It only lasted about thirty seconds. Ending with Draco forcibly spinning Harry about. So fast that it made him a little dizzy. Which was probably, for Draco, part of the fun. 

"Why'd you do that?"

"You liked the song."

***

Harry’s weirdly giddy these days. Light and airy. Not like an adrenaline high though. Or the roaring dragon he had in his chest in his youth, whenever he really intensely liked someone. This is different. It’s...easier. He finds himself smiling all the time. And Ron and Hermione give him these ‘knowing’ looks whenever he does it in their presence.

At home, He grabs Draco’s face and pulls him into a kiss at the most random times. Just because he can. And how amazing is it that he literally can? How amazing is it that Draco lets him?

But if he's honest. Draco lets him have anything and everything. Draco lets Harry wrap his arms around his waist from behind. Press against him, nose against the nape of his neck. He lets Harry cuddle with him at night.

He lets Harry call him _love_ early in the morning and late at night. The first time Harry said it, it had just slipped out. But Draco actually answers to it. He lets Harry calm his nerves, the way only Harry can. By being rash, and optimistic, and steady in a way that Draco isn’t. Harry is the only one who gets to see him get scared and actually admit to it. Draco tells him things in snippets and bits, never too much. But more than he ever gave anyone else. 

They still argue. If they didn’t, there would be something very, very wrong with one or both of them. And when they argue they don’t hold back. Draco says loads of things about Harry being the ‘chosen one’, and ‘too damned special’ and a ‘moron’. And Harry says that Draco is ‘unreasonable’ and ‘spoiled’ and ‘pretentious’. But after a few minutes of that. When things have cooled off a bit. One of them always approaches the other with a “Hey. So about that…”

To which the other always says, in some manner of speaking, “I know you didn’t mean it.”

The nights that follow an argument are always memorable. Sometimes for the way Draco stares at Harry, across from each other in bed. His eyes all wide, his gaze contemplative. Harry can read those eyes now. That face. He doesn’t think he’s ever known a face as well as he knows this face. And when Draco’s face looks like that Harry knows what he’s thinking. If after such a bitter argument he’s still welcome to lay his head on Harry’s chest and talk about how much he hates the world. Usually, a kiss is the best way for Harry to tell him that of course, of course he is. 

It’s surreal to Harry. Snogging Draco in bed like that. So warm, with Draco clinging to him. And everything about it is soft. Soft sheets. Soft duvet. Soft lips against his. They’re touching all over. From their ankles to their shoulders. How is it, Harry wonders...that he ever lived without having this...without having _him_?

Draco always sleeps well after that. Sweet and serene. Harry can tell, because when Draco sleeps really well he does so with his mouth a little open. And he drools a little bit. Just a tad. On Harry’s shirt. It’s not the sexiest thing, Harry knows that, but it’s one of those things that he’s sure--almost--that only he knows. 

***

At long last one Sunday morning Draco plays for him. 

The piano is in the garden room, among the lilies and the roses. It’s revealed with an incantation. _Amare Revelio._ A variation on a commonly done spell. It’s an upright instrument, made out of cherry wood. Right above the center key is inscribed _Greengrass & Sons _ in shining silver letters. 

Harry pulls in an extra chair from the kitchen so he can be a proper audience. While Draco sits on the piano bench. Harry had been taken aback, just an hour ago, when Draco offered a performance. But by now he’s itching with anticipation. 

Draco takes his sweet time to actually play a song. 

“You have to warm up your hands. You can’t just rush into it.” He explains rather impatiently, to Harry, “These are scales.” 

When Harry thinks of scales, he thinks of dragons. And reptiles. And other such things. But to Draco, it means playing a bunch of piano keys in order. With his left and right hand in parallel with each other. Apparently, it’s very important, and Harry finds himself quickly shushed when he tries to ask any questions.

The scales don’t produce any kind of magic out of the wizard’s pianoforte. Well, none that Harry can see. The image and shapes that had formed out of the air when Rosie played are not there. It’s probably best, as they sound like drills. 

Finally, Draco turns back at him, “What do you want to hear?” 

“I don’t know. Something you like?” 

“Something I like.” Draco considers, “This is a muggle piece. By Mendelssohn.”

“What’s it called?”

“Well you wouldn’t really understand the other stuff in the name. Since you don’t know about keys. Or anything else about music really. But you could call it a song without words.” 

“Hold on. Isn’t everything you play on the piano a song without words?” Harry wonders.

“Well yes. But the name of this piece actually _is_ A Song Without Words. Or. Part of the name.” 

“The part that I can understand.” Harry laughs, “Go on then.” 

“Right.” Draco says, “If I stop for a second don’t interrupt me. It might just be a rest. Or--how you would understand it--a break in the song. Can you manage that?”

“Yeah I think I can control myself.” Harry answers.

And then Draco starts to play. His fingers dance over the keys. Animated yet deliberate. He plays from memory, with feeling, no sheet music in sight. It’s a quiet sort of song at the start. There’s a seriousness to it. An elegance. And restraint. The whole melody feels like captured joy. The images rise and form almost immediately as the music plays. Forming out of what Harry feels when he hears it. 

He sees Hogwarts. The castle, his home of so many years, looms in front of him. It’s spring. As he remembers it. And as the song goes on, and the melody swells and rises, the seasons change. The blooming flowers are replaced with wild summer greenery. He can practically feel the heat. Then falling leaves and the first snow. The image almost grows darker, as he felt the castle almost did as he grew older. But despite how beautiful the conjured image is, Harry would rather watch Draco. 

He likes how relaxed Draco seems. It makes him look even more attractive, in Harry’s eyes. He’s rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. His hair falls fetchingly across his forehead. His fingers are barely darker than the stark white of the keys. _Mine_. Harry thinks. _He's mine._

When he stops playing, Harry waits a few moments before clapping, just to make sure he’s really done and not just ‘in a rest’ or whatever it was he said. 

“Did you like it?” Draco says a bit defensively, “Most people don’t appreciate classical. It’s something of a refined taste. I don’t expect you to like it.”

“I didn’t.”

“Oh. Well--”

“I loved it.” Harry says cheekily, “Let’s have another.” 

Draco can barely conceal his smile, and purposefully turns away, “Alright. What do you demand now?”

“Last time you did something you like. Do something I’d like. Shouldn’t be too difficult. Since you know me _so_ well.”

“Okay. I don’t really know that much about who composed this one. You gave me the sheet music. When I turned twenty-four. Said the song was called ‘Fields of Gold’. There’s some words to it too.”

“Do you know the words?” 

“No.” Draco explains, “You did. You could hum them. Anyway. Sometimes you even subjected me to your awful singing. You were really fond of it. For some reason.”

“You don’t remember any of the words at all?”

“I might remember some.” Draco admits.

He speaks slowly, and as purposefully not sing-songy as he can, “You’ll remember me. When the west wind moves. Upon the fields of barley. That’s the first bit. Then something about how you’ll forget the sun in the sky because we’re walking in the fields of gold.”

Draco turns around completely, so his legs fall over the opposite side of the bench. He looks at Harry as if he’s remembering something, “There’s some other stuff. Sort of repeats about the barley. And then I think there’s something about...it goes...I never made promises lightly and there have been some that I’ve broken but…but...”

“In the days we have left. We’ll walk in the fields of gold.” Harry finishes, his voice wavering. 

“How did you know that?”

“I think. Maybe I’d heard it somewhere. Before.” Harry doesn’t know if he means before he lost his memory, or before he had made those memories to lose. 

“Yeah. You probably did.” Draco turns around and starts the song. 

The sound of it reminds Harry of the feeling of Draco’s hand in his. Bittersweet familiarity. Each of the notes is a gentle caress. The image that forms from the melody is the colour gold. He sees an image of himself and Draco walking in the moors form within the canvas of gold. Running and running until they run into each other. He reaches down to stroke the silver ring on his finger. And look at the matching one on Draco’s hand. This song is about memory, Harry knows that. It’s curious; that he would have gifted the sheet music to Draco, just a few months before he forgot it all. But if he’s learned anything about the wizarding world in the past many years, it’s that there are few accidents. 

All Harry can think about when Draco plays this song is ‘forever’. Harry has never imagined growing old. Part of the reason is because his parents never got to. And every time he reaches an age they never did, he hates it. But with Draco, he might want to?

“That was brilliant.” Harry says, when Draco finishes, “Fields of gold, indeed.”

“I’m just pleased you didn’t sing.” Draco replies.

“Could you teach me?” Harry asks. 

“You want piano lessons? You’ve never wanted proper piano lessons before. Besides, you hardly have the patience for it.”

“I have enough patience to deal with you, don’t I?”

Draco scoots over on the bench, “Alright. This isn’t exactly a lesson. Just a simple duet. Kid stuff. I’ll play the difficult part. Just. Stop staring at me, come sit down!” 

Harry obeys. Draco takes his right hand and moves it over a central key. He pushes Harry’s thumb down on it. 

“This is middle C.” 

“Middle C.” Harry repeats. 

Draco moves Harry’s hand away, “Now find it again.”

Harry tries it. 

“Wrong.”

Harry tries it again, getting it right. 

In this way Draco shows him a few more keys. Each time moving Harry’s hand and his fingers to hit the keyboard. C. D. E. F. G. A. B. And then back to C. After a half hour of this, he lets Harry’s hand go and lets him hit the keys himself. Then he shows Harry how to hit a pair of keys, one with his thumb and one with his pinky. 

“What’s this called? It seems like there are names for everything with this.” Harry copies Draco’s hand motion rather clumsily. 

“Not like that.” Draco corrects the shape of his hand, “It’s a major chord.”

“Just do as I do.” Draco says, and he alternates hitting two sets of keys with his left hand, with hitting one with his right thumb, “It’s simple really. Even you could do it.”

Harry attempts to copy him, and comes out sounding a clanging, discordant mess. 

“Your hands are too stiff.” Draco chides, “Just relax. Again.”

Harry tries it again, “This doesn’t sound like a song.”

“That’s because your part is mostly repetition. It’s easy. It’ll make sense when I add mine.”

It takes Harry a few more tries. Well, quite a bit more than a few. And Draco counts the beats out for him to keep him in time. It’s easily been two hours since they started. Draco is a stern teacher. Not letting Harry distract him with kisses or witty retorts. It’s almost as bad as when he was teaching Harry how to make veritaserum. But finally he has it. 

And Draco asks him to just keep doing what he’s been doing, while Draco adds his part. 

“But how will we stay in time?” Harry wonders.

“You won’t. I’ll compensate and just follow your speed. So we’ll be more or less okay.” 

“What’s this song called?” 

“It’s a duet. Heart and soul.” 

“How romantic.”

“Shut up.” Draco pats him on the back, “I think you’ve got the hang of it. Let’s just take it from the beginning again. Alright?”

“Alright.” Harry says, then gives him a quick peck on the lips, “For luck.”

Harry starts his part first, as Draco says he will enter later. Harry’s playing is clumsy and unsteady. And he racks his brain to remember the right combinations. And then Draco plays. He sounds clear and bright in comparison. And the sound goes: da, da, da, dadada dadada da, da, da, dadada dadada, da, dee. Dee da...

Harry is concentrating so hard trying to get his part right, that he doesn’t notice Draco’s intake of breath before he starts to softly, and rather quietly, sing. 

_Heart and soul. I fell in love with you_

His voice is hesitant, and barely carries over the music. But it’s just loud enough for Harry to hear it. 

_Heart and soul, the way a fool would do, madly_

Harry misses a note. He hears the catch in Draco’s voice. 

_Because you held me tight_

_And stole a kiss in the night_

Harry continues his simple back and forth sounds. In the background to Draco’s melody and his voice. 

_Heart and soul, I begged to be adored_

It’s so strange to hear him say it. Yet without even looking at him, Harry knows that Draco is smiling. They’re good together. Like this. Four hands on one piano. Right beside each other. A heart and a soul. Harry feels like he’s under a spell. And he has to keep playing or he'll break it. 

_Lost control, and tumbled overboard, gladly_

Draco gets even quieter for the next line.

_That magic night we kissed_

_There in the moon mist_

They continue. Each verse and Draco's quiet, halfway sing-songy, pronouncements go straight to Harry's heart. To Harry's soul. Draco’s voice gets softer and softer. Until the end. 

_Ooh, heart and soul_

After they finish Draco is suddenly silent. He moves his hands off the keyboard. Harry turns to look at him. He hasn’t looked at him this whole time, being so focused on hitting the right keys and not messing this up. He was right, Draco is smiling. But there's also a wetness about his eyes. Maybe this isn’t the time for words, Harry thinks. So he just sits there with him. Recounting the music that was just between them. The magic that was between them. Is betweem them. After a minute Draco rests his head against Harry’s shoulder. 

“Harry.” Draco says in a small voice. 

“Yeah?”

“If you ever tell _anyone_ that I sang to you I swear I will smother you in your sleep.” 

Harry chuckles, “Fair enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heart & soul is a real piano duet taught to beginner students. I always really enjoyed playing it! It might be a tad unrealistic to learn in a day but bear with me. 
> 
> As an aside: I don't think Draco is actually a good singer when he sang the last song. He probably spoke it in tune more than sang it.  
> But it's the thought that counts.


	20. Would you lie to me, my love?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry drinks the potion.

In the end. They can’t wait for the anniversary. Harry doesn’t want to. It doesn’t seem fair. Every day they wait he just feels the pit at the center of his stomach growing. The naked fear that it won't work, and he'll lose even what they have now. They argue about it every day for a week. And finally, Draco relents. It’s terrifying for them both. After all, seven years are on the line. And this is just about the last hope they have of getting any of those memories back. After this point, most of the experts suspect that the memory loss would be permanent. 

They decide to not make a big deal of it. Harry will just drink it with dinner. If it works, then life will return to normal. That’s the best case scenario of course. They don’t discuss the worst case scenario. The one in which they lose. And Harry doesn't know what an endgame like that would do to his husband.   
  


Harry wonders how it might feel. To suddenly regain this missing part of him. Would he remember all at once. Or in little bits and pieces? Would he remember the most recent things first? Or the earliest? Would it give him a headache? Having seven years worth of memories to re-process. He’s certainly used to headaches. Or would it just be simple. Like a snap. And then everything’s set right again. 

  
  


Draco is a mask of tortured calm. He’s confident in the recipe. His instincts tell him it _should_ work. There’s no reason for it not to. But things always have a way of going southwards for him. Why should this be any different? 

  
  


“Go on then. Let’s see. Haven't got all day.” 

“Well.” Harry says, looking at the silvery concoction in his goblet, “Here goes.” 

  
  
  


Draco watches him intently as he drinks it in. Every last drop. And they wait. Harry's heart thuds in his chest. Going so fast. He doesn't remember the last time he was so tense. So afraid.   
  


The potion at first tastes bitter to Harry. Then like honey. Except with the consistency of milk. He knows that his first words after taking this potion will change his life. He hates that he doesn’t feel like he has any choice in the matter. If it doesn’t work, he knows Draco will be ruined. A part of him is still in love with him. That other Harry with whom he spent seven years. Present Harry wants to be that Harry. Somehow. He wishes he could. He doesn’t want to hurt Draco more than he already has.   
  


Harry downs the entire thing. Hoping, desperately to feel something. Anything. But the goblet is empty, and so is he. Draco’s just looking at him, waiting for him to react. But he looks sad. No, more than that. He looks terrified. 

Harry remembers the day he was sorted into Gryffindor. He chose to be there. It’s what Dumbledore always said too. _It is our choices, Harry, that what we truly are._ He knows what he truly is, and he's finally, FINALLY found a place in life--a place of peace. Why couldn’t it be a choice? Harry’s never been able to save everyone he loves. It's felt like losing a part of himself every time. But why shouldn’t he be able to?! For Draco, he would do anything. He knows that much.   
  


After taking the potion he had expected a stream of memories from those missing seven years to come rushing in. But they don’t. He just sees the past four months. All the time in which Draco has been his husband and more. His guide. His anchor in uncertain waters. The lone constant in a world that had changed and left him behind. Draco was there. He never asked anything of him. He never asked Harry to love him. And yet...

I _do_ love him, Harry thinks. And if I could, today, I’d do it all again. Me and him. However it happened. Whenever it happened. He looks at the terrified look in Draco’s eyes. And at the empty goblet. It’s a choice. It could be a choice. If he has it in him to make it.  
  


“Do you remember?” Draco asks desperately, “Anything at all?”  
  


Harry opens his mouth to answer but it feels dry. Maybe now. Maybe now the memories will come. Please, please come.   
  
  


“Harry?! Are you in there? Say something. For fucks' sake. Answer me!”   
  


_Do it_ , the voice in Harry’s head says. Just do it. He’s begging you to remember. Just say that you do, and make it alright. Harry wants to. He knows it’s wrong but he wants to. He can make it alright. He can fix this. He’s never been able to properly fix any of the other gaping wounds in his life. His parents. Sirius. Remus. They all left and tore a hole in his heart that's never healed. That can never heal. But this. He can fix this. He can choose to fix this. He can make Draco happy again. It’ll just have to be a sacrifice. They can make new memories. They’ll spend their whole life together after all, what’s seven years? He has to make this right for Draco. He just has to. Right now. In this moment, it feels like the only way.

Harry sees his life flash before his eyes. He never really had the kind of family he has now. The one that’s him and Draco. What right does he have to not remember and just break it apart? He hates lying. But he only hates one thing more...and that’s a broken family. 

“Harry.” Draco repeats, “What is it? What happened?!”  
  


Harry looks at the grey of Draco’s eyes. The storm that lies within. He loves the shape and color of those eyes. He's seen their every expression now. Anger and joy and hate and comfort. Pain. So much pain. They have that in common.   
  


He remembers coming home--the first time, the way Draco looked at him, as if Harry was lost to him forever. He remembers that day Draco came home desperately upset because his attempts and memory restoration were failing. How much he seemed to hate himself because of it. Blame himself for failing. The pain in his eyes every time Harry admits that he doesn’t remember. The way he looked in the Forbidden Forest, telling Harry about him, the other him, who loved him even when he didn’t deserve to be loved. Not expecting this Harry to do the same. He remembers Draco’s head in his lap, reading him stories. Had Draco worried that those times wouldn’t last, just because of Harry’s lack of memory? _It meant something to you. You want it back, even more than I do. If I say that I don’t remember, would it break you?_

  
  


**_Would I lose you?_ **

**_Can I let that happen?_ **

  
  


“It’s alright. It’s going to be alright. I love you. I do.” Harry gulps and falters for a second, “It’s just...I don’t..."  
  


Draco’s face falls instantly, “You don’t…?” 

_Come on, Harry._

_For him._

Harry leans in towards Draco, and caresses his face, he clears his throat, and says, ever so softly, “I don’t understand how you’ve put up with me for so long...You love me...You always have. I--I won’t forget it again.”

He sees from Draco’s instant relief. That he’s made the right decision. No matter how difficult it is to lie. Even a lie borne out of love. But it’s not a lie, not at its core. Because he has fallen in love with him. Completely and utterly and without a shadow of a doubt.   
  


Their kiss after just confirms it. Just giddy, and soft, and blind ecstasy.   
  


"I've waited so long to hear you say that. I thought you wouldn't. For so long. That you didn't--"

"Hey. Hey. I'm here now. I'm back. You're stuck with me now. I promise."

  
  


The next two weeks are euphoria. Pure, unbridled joy. Draco takes him to the country house in the south of France. He takes him to the family manor. Even the anniversary party goes off without a hitch. But then...gaps do start to show. Specifics and details. Harry still doesn’t have them. He’s pieced his life together from conversations and hearsay. From photographs and questions. It’s not always enough. He has to make sacrifices. He quits the aurors--there’s no way to feign seven years of that experience, and takes up private coaching in Defense Against the Dark Arts instead. He’s always been good at that.  
  


Harry wonders all the time. _Does he know? Does he know what I've done?_

He starts to feel the creep of guilt, all the time. 

At the two-week mark exactly, Harry remembers a conversation he had months ago with Pansy and Blaise. There had been another plan. The other plan Draco had, to restore Harry’s memories. The pensieve in their garden room. Draco’s memories of the past seven years that have been carefully set aside. He could use it. Just to fill in the holes of facts and dates. He can do that much, can’t he? For Draco. After all, he’s happy. They're happy. Harry doesn't want to let that go. Doesn't want to let him go. This peace, so hard won. This life, so long denied to him. Even though he's done the wrong thing for the right reasons.

**_***_ **

He has time when Draco’s at work. The memories he finds in a safe in Draco’s office. The combination to the lock is his own birthday: 31-7-1980. They’re labelled quite neatly. They’re in chronological order. Harry glances at the first set.  
  


He drops the first memory into the pensieve. Watches the memory image in the magical water stir and form. 

_I promised you that I would remember. I’m sorry that this is the only way I can._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Went back and forth for a while deciding whether it was really in character for Harry to lie like that. I think it could go both ways, but I think fundamentally his instinct is to sacrifice, even if that means lying, to save someone else...hence...
> 
> Anyway, this was a shorter chapter. The next ones will recount how they fell in love in the first place. From that first meeting. Before returning to the present day. For the inevitable resolution. Because of course Draco is eventually going to figure it out.

**Author's Note:**

> First draco/harry fanfic. Please be kind, and hope you enjoy :)


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